


The Third Test: Take a Deep Breath

by kutubiyya



Series: An Indian Summer [3]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Angst, Consensual Kink, Infidelity, Joe is an actual puppy, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, M/M, Picnics, Smut, Swanny text message cameo, gratuitous wet shirt moment, silly irresponsible boys, such is his commitment to meddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Alastair sighs, twisting the toe of his bat into the dirt of the practice wicket. The truth is, he doesn’t have the sort of life that lets you be part of a 'normal' family; for better or worse, he made that choice a long time ago, before he even properly knew what it meant.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>What he has, instead – as he’s begun to realise over the past month – is the sort of life that’s tailor-made for infidelity.</i>
</p><p>--</p><p>With Alastair nearing breaking point over the captaincy and his form, and Jimmy's disciplinary case about to go before the ICC, the Third Test could be the last of the summer for both of them. Not an ideal situation, all told, in which to try to sort out your feelings for someone. Much less <i>say</i> anything to the other person. Southampton, July 2014.</p><p>[Updated weekly on Fridays, although sometimes under a very loose interpretation of 'Friday' that's actually, um, Saturday. First chapter is smutless. The rest aren't.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you thought that the long heart-to-heart at the end of the previous part meant they were going to start communicating about their feelings honestly, on a regular basis, like mature adults... er, sorry.
> 
> For the benefit of anyone who's stopped by here via tags and has no idea who anyone is, [here are my leading men](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/101498060652/ecb-cricketgirl-just-love-that-fack-jimmy-pulls) (Alastair on the left-hand side, Jimmy on the right).
> 
> Joe and Jos [are here](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/116942718257/knockmeforsix-d) (Jos on the left of the pic, Joe lying on the floor in the middle), and for good measure, [here are some gifs](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/116935132192/leatheronwillow-tanyakini93-jos-being-perved) of the Jos Buttler Thigh!Cam thoughtfully provided for us by the England and Wales Cricket Board. (You think I'm joking, don't you? I'm not.) Stuart Broad is the blond one [in this gifset](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/115329647547), and [this is Chris Woakes](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/104840358752/chris-woakes-leaps-in-joy-after-a-wicket-sri).
> 
> Edited to add... and look, [here's Jimmy, Alastair and Joe the puppy](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/124841159252/tanyakini93-alastair-is-perfect-aw): (l-r) Jimmy, Ben Stokes (behind), Joe, Alastair, Jos, and the mostly obscured guy is Moeen Ali.
> 
> Kink negotiation is concentrated in chapter 3; mild kink in chapters 2 and (especially) 4.

_I didn’t feel a thing_  
_It didn’t mean a thing_  
_Look in the eye, testify_  
_Didn’t feel a thing_  
\--Faith No More, ‘Evidence’

\--

Most of the time, Alastair can convince himself that whatever he has going on with Jimmy – this thing, this fling, this arrangement, this affair – doesn’t mean anything much. It’s just a bit of fun. They’re just teammates who sometimes fuck. They’re just – _what’s the phrase?_ – friends with benefits. It’s just sex. It’s possible for something to _be_ just sex.

Then, every once in a while, something happens that leaves him floundering, and wondering. Let’s pick a purely theoretical idea out of the air, an idea that definitely bears no resemblance to anything that just happened a few moments ago. Say – for example – that Jimmy, decked out in white-rimmed mirror sunglasses and perfectly coiffured hair, strolled past the net where Alastair’s been training for the past few hours; say that Alastair, catching sight of him, felt a certain uneven thud in his chest, of a sort that might just qualify as his heart skipping a beat.

Say – _purely_ for example – that Alastair found himself holding his breath, waiting to see if the other man would stop, or, after he’d passed, turn back. Would that mean… well, what _would_ it mean?

Alastair ponders this as he takes guard again, nodding down the net at Pete. What _does_ it mean? That he has an over-active imagination, certainly. That he needs to be concentrating a bit more on what he’s doing on the field, and a bit less on what he’s doing in bed: yes, of course.

These points are not unrelated.

But what else, really? In truth – he reflects, as he knocks the next delivery safely towards the imaginary covers – this is silly. There’s no call to be reacting this way. It’s only a couple of days since he last saw Jimmy, after all.

Specifically: Alastair was woken, in his hotel room in London the morning after the second Test ended, by the other man scrambling out of bed like the sheets were on fire. He gathered, from the stream of swearwords Jimmy directed at his phone, that said phone’s battery had died during the night and an alarm had failed to go off. He further gathered that Jimmy had a meeting with a group of ECB solicitors in fifteen minutes, ahead of the hearing over his altercation with Ravindra Jadeja.

Alastair sat up in bed, and sat tight, watching Jimmy hopping around as he pulled on the trousers of his black suit; any offer of help, he reasoned, was as likely to get his head bitten off as raise a smile. He’d feel the same way, if he were in Jimmy’s place. And what could he do, anyway? He almost gave in when he saw Jimmy fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, but instead he wrapped his arms around his knees, and resisted the urge to go to him.

Two days later, in the nets at the Rose Bowl, Alastair’s getting his feet in a tangle fending off a full ball on leg stump. He curses under his breath, tells himself to focus; but, with depressing predictability, his mind wheels back to that morning, regardless.

The whirlwind of activity, that morning, finally paused with Jimmy hovering behind the hotel room door, squinting through the peephole. Checking, presumably, whether anyone was around to witness his walk – or, more likely, hasty jog – of shame.

Alastair took his chance. He rejected his first impulse – _Good luck_ – and went with something more optimistic. “See you in Southampton,” he said. Even with the unexpected extra sleep, his voice was rough with fatigue, and something else.

Alastair cleared his throat, but it was a bit late by then. The talk the night before – the reveal of past hurt, the acknowledgement of mistakes made, the unspoken realisation that neither of them wanted this thing between them to end, at least not yet, that they’d begun to build up a rhythm and a trust that suited them – had changed something for him. Difficult to say whether Jimmy heard any of this in Alastair’s voice, but Alastair certainly did, and he fought not to cringe when he did. _Too much_.

Too much, most likely, for Jimmy's patience; too much, also, for Alastair to deal with, given everything else going on just now. Best to leave it unconsidered; uncomplicated.

Jimmy grunted, flicked the lock, opened the door a crack – and looked over at the bed. His half-smile was not encouraging. He tapped the fingers of one hand lightly to his forehead, like he was doffing an imaginary cap, or performing the world’s most understated salute. Then he was gone.

As if the sound of the door slamming behind him was a signal – the report of a starter’s pistol, permission to move – Alastair dived out of bed, and darted to the door. Jimmy was gone from the field of the peephole’s vision almost as soon as Alastair reached it, but he listened, breath held, until he was satisfied there was no-one out there to exclaim surprise at Jimmy’s emergence from Alastair’s room in last night’s clothes. Then he took a deep breath, and busied himself with packing, in lieu of thinking, and worrying.

In the nets at Southampton, Alastair’s pulling out all his trademarks. Leave. Leave. Block. Leave. He ducks under a bouncer he barely saw coming, and glares down the net at Pete. “Concentrate,” the white-haired coach tells him, with a smile, and it’s an entirely fair and correct point; but Alastair doesn’t. He tries, but his head’s still days, and miles, away.

He spent the rest of that day, and most of the next – yesterday – at home. Curled up with his wife, making the most of the scant, precious time off. He held her while she dozed in between feeds of their voracious daughter. He smiled – and ached – at her catalogue of baby things he’d missed over the past few weeks; how could there be so much, in so short a time? He poured his heart out about the captaincy, the fear and the hurt he couldn’t show the team or the press, and was almost undone by the love and support and general sensibleness he got in return. If he’d hoped that she might offer him an escape route, that she might talk about how she could do with more help at home now the baby had come, he was disappointed.

But he hadn’t hoped for that, obviously; he loves his job. And Alice has been a cricket wife for far too long – since well before they were actually married – to do anything other than take it in her stride that he’s away a great deal more often than he’s home. Sometimes he wonders what it’s like to have a normal family life, the sort where you live in the same house as your family for more than a handful of days a month. The sort where you see your children grow up in actual baby steps, rather than great leaps of discontinuity.

To give Alice chance for a longer rest, he took a couple of the feeds on the second evening; milk expressed in advance, in bottles given pride of place in the fridge, with notes attached like he might not spot them or remember his instructions. He cradled and fed and burped his daughter in hands too big and clumsy, and didn’t even try to reconcile the fierce, helpless, bewildering love he felt for her with the fact that, while she’d been sleeping, his thoughts had drifted to Jimmy.

With this memory, his rhythm in the nets deserts him entirely. He gropes outside off-stump for three balls in a row that he could have left; misses one, nicks the others. Without looking up, he holds up two fingers to signal for a break, and spends the respite leaning on his bat, one hand on his hip, watching Sam in the net on his leg side without really seeing anything. Remembering.

He got a message from Pete, late afternoon on the first day, confirming that Jimmy’s hearing had been inconclusive, and the charges were now in the domain of the ICC. A new date to dread, and all the more so: the first of August, a trial by video-conference for both Jimmy and Jadeja. Alastair picked up his phone and put it down again without texting Jimmy at least a dozen times that evening. Couldn’t find the words. Apparently Jimmy was in the same boat, or maybe he wasn’t; either way, there was no message for Alastair from up north.

On the second day, in between deleting a backlog of unread email he didn’t care about and checking over his bank account online, Alastair thought about Jimmy taking charge the night before the last Test ended, and what he’d said the night after, about boundaries; took his laptop into the empty study and spent an eyebrow-raising half hour on some guilty, surreptitious googling. Within the first two minutes, he found out he’d forgotten to turn the sound down. He’d never back-buttoned out of a website so fast in his life. There were a few others he did that with, later, and not because of the sound.

Alastair sighs, twisting the toe of his bat into the dirt of the practice wicket. The truth is, he doesn’t have the sort of life that lets you be part of a normal family; for better or worse, he made that choice a long time ago, before he even properly knew what it meant.

What he has, instead – as he’s begun to realise over the past month – is the sort of life that’s tailor-made for infidelity.

It’s not a morally comfortable realisation, for someone who’s always prided himself on being a good man – without ever really reflecting on what that means, without ever, really, being tested – but it’s not one he can bring himself to regret. Perhaps he will, in time; but, for now, he’s grateful that he has something – someone – to take his mind off things, this summer. Someone who understands, intimately, the pressures of professional, international sport; someone with whom he’s shared so many highs and lows over the years. Someone who’s here, now, when he needs him; as his wife, much as he loves her, can never be.

If this summer is all there is, as he suspects, that’s fine; for the best, in fact. If it doesn’t last beyond this Test, if the outcome of the hearing is Jimmy’s banned for the rest of the series, so be it. Alastair will enjoy it to the full while it lasts, and afterwards he’ll go back to the way he used to do things.

And if his heart does, in fact, sometimes skip a beat when he sees Jimmy, then so be that, too. No-one has to know.

Alastair hefts his bat, rotates his shoulders, gives Pete the thumbs-up down the net. This time, when he takes guard, there’s nothing wrong with his focus at all.

\--

The next time his concentration is broken, Alastair doesn’t know how much longer he’s been batting. The shadows have lengthened, a little; Sam’s been replaced on his leg side by Gary, and on his off-side, Mo’s bowling under Belly’s watchful eye.

Alastair blinks at the two figures watching him from the other end of the net, arms folded like they’re improbable mirror images of each other. One of them is Jimmy, shades pushed up on top of his head.

This time there’s no thud in Alastair’s chest; _so_ , he thinks, _there you go_.

“Fancy a breather?” Jimmy calls, jerking his head to the left, towards the drinks crates.

Alastair wets his lips. “Just found my rhythm.” And it felt good.

It’s been a while since he’s felt good in the nets. Maintaining this is important, like a half-heard melody he needs to capture, before he loses it again.

Jimmy turns his gaze on Pete, who tosses the ball up. “Go on,” says the coach. “Let me know when you need me again.” He’s heading off before Alastair can reply.

Alastair tucks his bat under his arm and trudges to the top of the net, undoing the Velcro fastenings of his gloves and feeling vaguely conspired against. He drops bat and gloves with his kitbag, then takes off his helmet, scrubbing a hand through his hair. As he straightens up from depositing the helmet on the grass, he catches the end of an unreadable look on Jimmy’s face.

Jimmy tugs his sunglasses back down to rest on the bridge of his nose. “Don’t understand how you don’t get more sweaty, under that lid for hours,” he says.

Alastair does a quick squat; his legs are a little stiffer than he first noticed. “They take out your sweat glands at opening batsman school.”

Jimmy huffs a laugh. “Explains a lot,” he says, as they start to walk. “At fast bowler school they mostly just taught us how to sledge and hold our beer.”

“Really. What’s Finny’s excuse, then?”

“He skipped a year by accident. So tall they thought he was older than he really was. Too polite to correct anyone.”

“Tragic.” Alastair finds himself looking round for Broady, instinctively, but there’s no sign of him. One day, he tells himself, he’s going to find out if he’s right about Stu and Steve.

“Seriously, though,” says Jimmy, “how long were you in the nets for?”

Alastair thinks about this, though not too hard. “Lost track.”

“Pete said you got here about half eleven.”

Alastair glances at the pavilion clock – it’s after three, he sees – then turns his gaze back to the crates ahead of them. “Why are you asking, if you already know the answer?”

“Did you even have lunch?”

“Brought sandwiches from home.” Alastair’s pretty sure he ate them. At least one of them. He can’t remember what was on it. He should probably text his wife to thank her for making them; it wasn’t as if she didn’t have more important things to do.

They walk in silence for half a dozen paces, before Jimmy says, in a different tone, “So. How’re you doing?”

_Better before you started interrogating me_ , Alastair thinks, but doesn’t say; he knows it isn’t fair of him, and either way he doesn’t want to get into a debate about how he prepares for a match.

“Oh… you know,” he says instead, taking a leaf out of Jimmy’s Big Book of Vagueness. He glances at the other man, at the set of his jaw; thinks about the texts they didn’t exchange over the past few days. “More importantly, how are you?”

Jimmy, predictably, shrugs. “Lot of meetings with solicitors over the next week.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Alastair, for the sake of filling the silence, as they reach the drinks crates. It’s just over a week until the hearing; all sorts of things could change before then.

Jimmy doesn’t reply, just reaches down to lift the lid of one of the crates. Like the rest, it’s white, maybe one and a half feet high and less than twice that in length. Black panels on the long sides advertise this year’s mineral water. As Alastair bends down to grab a couple of bottles from inside, he remembers the previous sponsor of their water; he did an advert for them. He saw it when he was at the cinema, once. He’s never felt more embarrassed in public in his life.

He straightens up, catching Jimmy ogling his arse as he does; assumes he was meant to spot that. He passes one of the bottles to Jimmy, and grins as he closes the crate lid and sits down, facing the nets. Despite everything, it’s good to be back, in sunshine and cricket pads and Jimmy’s company.

Jimmy regards him for a moment, then parks himself on the edge of the same crate, back pressed against Alastair’s hip. He pokes Alastair in the side with the base of his bottle. “Budge up.”

Alastair snorts, and holds his ground. “Find your own crate,” he says, although he’d be lying if he pretended he wasn’t enjoying the contact.

Jimmy’s expression is almost innocent, just shading into a sly grin. “I like this one.” He nudges Alastair, then does it again with a bit more force; the second time, he succeeds in sliding Alastair a little way along the crate and winning himself some extra space.

Alastair, who’s now got one thigh on the crate and one hanging over the edge of it, has no intention of letting this go without a fight. He pushes bodily into Jimmy, who shoulder-butts him back. There’s a brief exchange of raised eyebrows, then both of them are digging their spikes into the turf and shoving hard against each other. Equal force; neither of them getting anywhere, neither letting up.

Fun though the test of strength is, when a way to win occurs to Alastair, he can’t resist taking it. He pivots himself abruptly off to the right, leaving Jimmy with nothing to push against and no time to adjust. The other man goes sprawling to the grass with a yelp.

Alastair barely even needs to change position; he’s still crouching, all he has to do is back up a bit. He sits himself back down on the crate, looks round behind him, then beams, gleefully, as Jimmy rolls over onto his back.

“Changed my mind,” says Jimmy, repositioning his sunglasses. There’s a four-inch grass stain down his left-hand side. “Don’t want that one after all. Rubbish crate. Rest are better.”

Alastair moves his left leg round – not easy to do with grace, given that he’s still wearing all his pads – until he’s straddling the crate. He leans back, supporting himself on one arm and lifting his bottle with the other. He tilts his head to drink. “Can’t believe you’ve given in that easily,” he says, when he’s done, lowering the bottle again and wiping his mouth with the back of a hand.

Jimmy has pushed himself to his feet. He’s brushing grass off his shorts, but mostly he’s staring appreciatively at Alastair’s thighs – which, to be fair, was kind of the point of straddling the crate.

Jimmy gives a happy-sounding sigh. “Like the way the straps pull everything nice and tight,” he says. “Puts all sorts of ideas in my head. And who says I’ve given…” He trails off, staring into the distance, and makes a face. “Uh oh,” he mutters. “The puppy’s on his way.”

Alastair turns his head to follow the direction of Jimmy’s gaze. Joe’s jogging over to them, arms pumping, head bobbing from side to side, grin plastered across his features.

“Don’t be such a misery,” says Alastair, turning back to squint up through the brightness at Jimmy’s scowl. “Sun’s shining, let him be happy.”

Jimmy sniffs as he unscrews the lid of his water bottle. “There’s no call for bounding about like that.” He gestures with the bottle. “I mean, look at him.”

Alastair looks. Mistake. His only warning’s a faint glugging noise, then something cold hits the crown of his head, and he goes from dry to drenched in the time it takes him to gasp in a breath.

As water streams down his neck, soaking into the shoulders of his shirt, Alastair swipes a palm across his eyes and rounds on Jimmy, who’s dropping his now-empty bottle and hooting with laughter.

“Git,” says Alastair, which only makes Jimmy laugh harder.

“Told you I hadn’t given up.” Jimmy’s gaze roves, and his grin edges into a leer. “That worked even better than I expected. If you wanted to train in a wet shirt just, like, permanently from now on, I’d be a hundred percent behind you. Well, in front of you. For the best view.”

Alastair leaps to his feet. Jimmy yells wordlessly and more than a bit giddily, just about flinging himself out of the way of Alastair’s attempted grab, and hurtles off. Alastair gives chase, as best he can in his pads. Joe’s shouting something from behind them; Alastair doesn’t even pretend to care. The pair of them pound their way across the outfield for about twenty yards before Jimmy tries to double back, but Alastair sees it coming and moves to intercept him. He right up behind Jimmy now, can hear the other man panting, gasping with laughter.

Jimmy tries another feint, again only to be blocked by Alastair. For a moment they both stop, and there’s a stalemate; they stare at each other. Well, Alastair holds his gaze on Jimmy’s eyes; Jimmy, for his part, keeps looking back and forth between Alastair’s face and his chest.

“You ran totally the wrong way,” says Alastair; relaxing, now he knows he has the upper hand.

Jimmy’s staring at Alastair’s shirt again. “Mmm. What? Sorry, kind of… lost.” He looks up. “Listening to you now. Promise.”

“You ran the wrong way. If you’d gone for the pavilion, we could have been snogging in a storeroom or something by now.”

“Too late to change my mind?”

“Fraid so.”

“Damn,” says Jimmy, with feeling – and as he says it, he’s darting past Alastair.

Or trying to.

Alastair dives at him. It’s a pretty good rugby tackle, especially from a standing start, even if he does say so himself. He brings the other man down in a heap of limbs and northern-accented swearing. He even gets in a sneaky grope of Jimmy’s arse, manages to conceal it – more or else, he thinks – in the roll he does to get himself clear, so that when Joe finally catches up with them about five seconds later, he and Jimmy are lying side by side on the grass, giggling like schoolboys.

Joe stops a couple of inches from their heads, and stands over them with his hands on his hips.

“Message from Pete,” he says. “If you two injure each other before the Test starts, you’re in big trouble.”

Which sets them both off laughing again.

If this is all he gets, Alastair tells himself, it’s enough. It doesn’t have to mean anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole sitting-on-drinks-crates thing was [inspired by these photos](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/121928410092/eng-v-ind-training-ahead-of-the-2nd-test-lords) (actually from the previous Test, but the general principle holds :)).


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, Alastair reflects as he shuffles up against the back of the hotel room sofa, certain things just get sort of stuck in your brain. However hard you try to flush them out, they aren’t going anywhere.

Like that song he seemed to keep hearing on the radio first thing in the morning during the Sri Lanka series. He still doesn’t know the name of it, only its repetitively catchy bass line: _ba-DA-da-DA-da-dum, da-da-dum, da-da-dum_. It wasn’t irritating at the time, but it certainly got irritating by the time he was into the fourth hour of trying to concentrate in the slips with the damn thing still on a loop in his head. Or that baffling dream he had last year, in which Belly was wearing a top hat and speaking Afrikaans; at least, Alastair _thinks_ it was Afrikaans, somehow he knew that in the dream but wasn’t completely sure when he woke up. He spent the next three days having to keep stopping himself from asking the other man how long he’d been learning the language.

Likewise: since Jimmy called Joe _puppy_ this afternoon, Alastair hasn’t been able to stop thinking the word whenever he sees the younger man. Which is _particularly_ awkward just now, given that Joe’s been sitting next to him on this tiny overstuffed brown sofa for the past hour.

But there _is_ an air of the puppy about the Yorkshire lad. Now Alastair’s seen it – or been shown it – he can’t unsee it. It’s the perpetual grin that makes Joe’s whole face shine, and the way he seems to have more limbs than he really knows what to do with; above all, it’s the fact that he’s never, ever still. One minute he’s flinging his arms around, the next he’s snuggling up to Alastair, then after _that_ he’s bouncing in his seat. Currently he has both arms draped across the back of the sofa, one leg curled up so his knee’s poking into Alastair’s thigh, and the other leg stretched as far as it can go across the beige carpet in front of them.

Alastair can’t imagine he’s comfortable. But he can’t help but be caught up in the general atmosphere of cheerfulness.

“Can’t _wait_ to get stuck in,” Joe’s saying, for maybe the sixth time. “It’s going to be brilliant!”

There’s an air of Swanny about Joe, too; Alastair’s already had three hugs since Joe danced his way in the door, and he suspects there’s a fourth on the cards. But Alastair can’t really imagine Swanny punctuating extended ruminations on the upcoming Test with such an irrepressibly unironic refrain as _Can’t wait to get stuck in_. While there’s often an edge to Swanny’s humour, Joe’s is simply exuberant; where Swanny’s incisiveness can be unrelenting – governed by a determination not just to comment, but to convince – Joe is content to make suggestions, without pushing too hard.

This is the reason Alastair didn’t, in the end, call Swanny before he left for the Caribbean. Swanny’s essentially amoral when it comes to the happiness of his friends; Alastair knew exactly what the other man would say to him, and that he didn’t have the energy to resist the drift of his logic.

Joe, meanwhile, is a bright sky without a cloud, and the fact that he still looks up to Alastair like a particularly impressive – or _brilliant_ – older brother helps, although maybe it shouldn’t. He makes Alastair want to be better, and stronger; to rise to the challenge and battle on through, like he always used to. He makes Alastair want to live up to the image of himself he sees reflected in the younger man’s sparkling eyes.

But this is an easier ambition to imagine at some points in the conversation than others. For example:

“It’s weird, though,” Joe’s saying. “I mean, they’re all talking like it’s obvious. Inevitable. That I’m… what’s the word? Anointed? I’ve only been in the team a while, and everyone’s convinced I’m going to be captain. After you. I mean, I _do_ want it, but it’s… weird. You know?”

Alastair finds he’s slumped in his seat again. He lets his head loll back against Joe’s arm, which is still stretched out behind him, and searches the ceiling for inspiration: a way to say something sincere without sounding like he’s trying to fend off competition. Or betraying how conflicted he’s feeling.

“If you want my advice,” he says at last, “wait as long as you can. Enjoy your cricket for a few more years yet, before you add extra pressure.”

Alastair’s always thrived under pressure. Stubbornness can take you a long way, especially as an opener. But then things fell apart, in Australia, and the powers that be made him their figurehead, and nothing’s been the same, since.

“Well,” says Joe, with a huge smile, “that’ll work out great. Because you’ve got a few more years as captain yet.”

Alastair looks away. “We’ll see.”

Joe’s arm snakes around Alastair’s shoulders. “You know it’s true,” he says, and all that admiration and kindness is there in his voice, and Alastair suspects the other man genuinely believes it; more, that he believes it and is glad about it.

Every team, he decides, should have a Joe in it to cheer people up.

Alastair surreptitiously checks his watch. Nice though this is, mostly, he has other things on his agenda for tonight. He can generally rely on Jimmy to be late, of an evening, but it’s getting on for 9.15, and once Jimmy arrives it’s going to be extra tricky to shoo Joe out of the room. He clears his throat.

“So,” says Joe, before Alastair can meander his way to an excuse to wind down the conversation, “about Jos.”

There’s the slightest hint of tension in Joe’s voice, and Alastair remembers that this is what Joe said he was here for, when he knocked on the door just after eight. Intrigued, Alastair turns to look at him; he’s close enough, drawn in to Joe’s side by the skinny arm around his shoulders, that he can see the pale hair on Joe’s cheeks. It stands out quite clearly, in fact, against the abruptly deeper pink shade of his skin.

Joe, for his part, is studying his jeans.

“I know you’re really busy and everything, but I thought. Well. Maybe it’d be nice if, you know… you took him out for tea tomorrow? I mean, I don’t have to come or anything. Although that’d be brilliant. But. You know.”

“Oh, god.” Alastair pushes a hand into his hair, heart sinking. “I completely forgot.”

This is one of his traditions, when a guy joins the squad: have dinner with them on the first evening of training. Not that he hasn’t played with Jos before, but joining the Test team is something a bit different; something a bit special. He likes to mark it. But today, time got away from him.

“I just want him to feel welcome,” says Joe. “You know, with him taking over from Matty, and that. Big shoes. Or big gloves.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Alastair says, quickly. If he’s honest, he’s more than a little anxious at the thought of having someone other than Matty behind the stumps; all the more reason to reassure their new keeper. “I did mean to do it, I just… got caught up this evening. I’m so sorry.”

Joe’s eyes widen. “It’s all right, it’s not a crisis or anything.” He pats Alastair’s thigh, heartily. “Like I say, I know you’ve got a lot on.”

If he says anything else – and he probably does, he’s Joe – it’s lost to Alastair, because just then there’s a knock at the door and he’s on his feet in a heartbeat, struggling to keep a straight ( _ha_ ) face as he strides to answer it. At the last moment, it occurs to him to say, loudly, “Not a problem. Tomorrow at seven suit you?”, so Jimmy will know there’s someone in here with him, and not do anything silly when Alastair opens the door.

In the event, it’s Alastair himself, arguably, who does something silly, in that once he’s opened the door – to the sight of Jimmy sporting a white polo shirt, black trousers, and a half-smile shaped of promises – he just says, “Uh, hi,” and then stands there for several seconds, smiling a bit stupidly.

Jimmy’s smile fades. “Am I… interrupting…?” He cranes his neck, trying to see into the room, around Alastair – who steps aside, hastily, to let him in.

“No… we were just—”

“Finishing,” says Joe, from behind him. “Evening, Jimmy.”

Jimmy nods, but by then Joe’s gone straight into hug number four, taking Alastair by surprise. Joe’s arms lock tightly around him, and Alastair feels his back being stroked; he closes his eyes and leans into the younger man, who says, “If you need to talk, you know where I am.”

“You too,” says Alastair, and at the back of his mind he’s wondering whether there’s more to Joe’s concern for Jos than he’s letting on.

At length, Joe relinquishes Alastair, wishes them both a cheery good night. Alastair returns the smile, but Jimmy just grunts; he stands with his hands on his hips, looking down at the floor. The instant the door closes behind Joe, Jimmy is reaching for Alastair; gives him no chance to say a word, kisses him, vigorously, with a hand at his waist and another on his shoulder. Soon there are fingertips questing under the waistband of Alastair’s shorts, then back out again, trailing down over his backside, then pushing the shorts up and up and up to where leg meets buttock, and Alastair feels the fingertips brush against bare skin—

The kiss stops, abruptly; Jimmy’s expression, when he draws his head back a little way, is quizzical. “Are you…?” The fingertips keep travelling. “Are you not wearing any pants?”

“Oh. Yeah…” Alastair catches his breath as Jimmy’s hand moves more decisively inside his shorts, stretching the fabric, pulling it tight around the rest of his arse, and against the swell already developing in his groin. “Joe turned up just as I got out of the shower. Almost answered the door in just a towel, then checked at the last moment and saw it wasn’t you.” He smiles a bit, at the memory of his own alarm. “So I threw my training kit back on, and…”

Jimmy’s fingertips dig into Alastair’s arse; his teeth nip at Alastair’s jaw, high on the left-hand side. “Not sure I approve,” he says, low, into Alastair’s ear, “of you entertaining other guys in here with no underwear. That sounds like a thing I should disapprove of.”

Alastair gets a jolt of heat below his belly, and tries to move in closer to the other man, but Jimmy’s hand down below turns, bunching into a fist in the polyester, pulling the shorts tighter still at the front, an unyielding barrier against Alastair’s rapidly hardening cock.

Alastair bites his lip against a gasp, and stays where he is. “Well.” It’s important to concentrate; to keep up with Jimmy. It takes Alastair a few moments to think of a response, and when inspiration hits it also takes some willpower not to grin his satisfaction. “You did say, last week or whenever it was, that it’d be good for morale if I, um, spread my favours around.”

Jimmy looks startled. “That was a _joke_!”

 _One to me_ , Alastair thinks. He raises a hand to his mouth, playing at dawning realisation. “Oh, _dear_ ,” he says. “There are going to be some _very_ disappointed cricketers tomorrow.”

Jimmy pulls Alastair against him, sharply. “Mine,” he says. His hand leaves Alastair’s shoulder, grabs at his hair, tilting his head back: more coaxing than forcing, but there’s only one way Alastair can move his head, even so.

Alastair wraps an arm round Jimmy’s waist, not least for the sake of keeping his balance. He does his best to hang on in the banter, too, though the sensation of his constricted groin pressing hard against Jimmy – that and the throb he got down there at the way the other man said _Mine_ – makes it tough. “You think so?”

Jimmy leans in, slowly, until his lips are almost touching Alastair’s; then he stays there, motionless, and Alastair can feel the other man’s breath washing over his mouth, but no matter how he strains, Jimmy’s hand in his hair holds him in place, not letting him get at what he wants.

At last Alastair groans, in frustration and surrender, and Jimmy smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

This time the only word Alastair can think of to describe the kiss that follows is _possessive_. His face heats at how much he enjoys it, and enjoys the idea. He struggles, for a moment, against Jimmy’s grip – on his head, on his shorts – to test how it feels; tries to speak a word or two, just to get that little kick of arousal at hearing himself muffled and helpless. Then he relaxes into the kiss, into the strength of the other man, into his own surrender.

“Maybe,” says Jimmy, a considerable while later, as he releases Alastair’s mouth, “…maybe this isn’t a terrible idea. If you wanted to wait for me, one evening, with no underwear… or no clothes at all… That would be okay.”

Alastair laughs. Times like this – alone with Jimmy, intimate with Jimmy, turned on but knowing he’ll probably be waiting a while until the other man follows through – he finds in himself a strange combination of disorientation and clarity, like he’s shifted into a place slightly removed from reality.

 _Can you get drunk_ , he wonders, _on a person? On how you feel when they touch you?_

He pushes that aside. “I thought,” he says, “you were a slow-build kind of guy?”

Jimmy shrugs. “A man can have the _odd_ fantasy that’s a bit different.” He starts to kiss Alastair’s neck. “Hey, I know. One lunchtime or something. You can go inside ahead of me, find a shower cubicle again. Strip off, and get yourself ready.” The hand inside Alastair’s shorts twists again, and a fingertip strokes against his entrance. “So when I get there… no waiting.”

Alastair swallows, and closes his eyes. “Prefer it when you do it,” he says. “And, practically speaking, not sure I can… get the right angle.”

He feels teeth grin against his neck. “It’s a fantasy,” Jimmy says. “Practical doesn’t come into it.”

“Course it does,” says Alastair. “How do we fulfil it, otherwise?”

Jimmy’s grip on his hair loosens, and his mouth leaves Alastair’s throat; Alastair opens his eyes to find the other man’s staring at him, up close, eyes wide. Jimmy’s lips part, a little way, and he takes a breath as if he’s about to say something; then he’s shaking his head as he leans forward, and his mouth is covering Alastair’s, warm and firm and _still_ , and Alastair’s closed his eyes again but he’s tracking every tiny flicker of movement from Jimmy’s fingers. They brush his cheek, they slide along his jaw, they stroke their way beneath his chin, they trail down his neck. And Alastair feels again a fluttering in his chest, and he’s thinking about Jimmy’s ICC hearing and what’ll happen with the captaincy if they lose this match—

He forces himself to break out of it: out of kiss and train of thought alike. He needs a stronger distraction, clearly, than just a kiss. With an effort, he gathers breath and presence of mind enough to resurrect the earlier, teasing tone.

“How is it,” he says, “when _you_ want to get down to things quickly, it’s a… like, steamy fantasy or whatever, but when _I_ suggest it, I get called demanding and impatient?”

Jimmy grins, and a moment later Alastair feels Jimmy’s palm pressing against his groin, stroking up and down firmly. A familiar sensation – that shooting tickle that’s half heat, half an absence – blooms below Alastair’s gut.

“Because I’m in charge,” Jimmy says, and Alastair would roll his eyes at him, if it weren’t so obvious, so undeniable, what effect Jimmy’s words have on him. _Just words_ , Alastair tells himself, but they’re memories, too, of what they did during the last Test; something about the words, about hearing them, is a signal boost for the sensation. And there’s quite a lot of sensation, all of a sudden.

So he sighs, instead, closes his eyes, and lets Jimmy wield his power over him.

“So. Back to the fantasy. You’re waiting for me in the shower,” mutters Jimmy against Alastair’s mouth; the last word is half-swallowed by another kiss, one that ends with Alastair’s lower lip trapped loosely, and briefly, between Jimmy’s teeth. “And we’ve agreed which one you’re going to be in, and you’ve left the door unlocked, so I can just walk in – don’t want to knock, after all, might attract attention.” Jimmy’s head has dipped; his mouth’s hot against Alastair’s throat, his stubble rough. “And when I come in, you turn to face the wall, so I can see you’re all ready to go. Just like I told you.”

Jimmy’s hands have stayed in position: one’s inside Alastair’s shorts, with a fistful of fabric, one finger still teasing puckered skin; the other hand is outside, rubbing at Alastair’s trapped, aching cock but making no move to venture past the barrier. Alastair starts to rock against him, seeking something more – and there’s a sudden, sharp little pain at his left ear. He cries out, mostly in shock.

“Slow down, greedy.” Jimmy’s voice is warm breath in his ear. His hands have stopped moving. “Don’t you want to hear how it ends?”

Alastair flinches – just a little, involuntarily – when he feels Jimmy’s mouth at his throbbing earlobe, but this time the soft skin there is sucked, not bitten.

“Yes,” he says, enjoying the contrast of pain then gentleness. When nothing more happens, he adds, “Please.”

A grunt of satisfaction from the other man. The groping resumes. Jimmy goes on murmuring into Alastair’s ear, and Alastair – remembering the bite – takes this as a warning to behave. Mind awhirl, he misses the next bit, until one phrase grabs his attention:

“…hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.”

Alastair presses his lips together, but it’s too late to stop a quiet moan escaping. Jimmy grunts again – “Yeah, you like that idea, don’t you?” he says – and his front hand slides lower, finds and cups the shape of Alastair’s balls, squeezes them firmly. This time Alastair can’t keep his mouth shut; this time his moan is louder. He feels oddly vulnerable; in just the flimsy protection of his shorts, he feels somehow more exposed to Jimmy than usual.

“Then” –Jimmy goes on— “all I have to do is line myself up, and push in. All the way, first time, deep as I can go. Because you’re ready, and eager. And then… then I fuck you, hard and fast, grinding you against the wall.”

Everything between Alastair’s legs is throbbing with unbearable heat. His heart pounds. He’s almost shaking with the effort of doing as he’d told, and not pushing against Jimmy’s grip.

“And when I’m done, I just tuck myself back in my trousers and slip out into the dressing room. No-one the wiser.”

Jimmy’s hands go still, again, and this time he withdraws them both; lifts them to Alastair’s waist, raking skin with his nails.

Alastair allows himself a small whine of disappointment – although _allows_ implies something more voluntary and intentional than it really is, when in truth he has little control over it – but he’s not in the least surprised. At least his shorts are back to their old, loose selves again, and things aren’t so cramped down there. He struggles to get his breath under control, turns his burning face away as Jimmy leans in to kiss him.

“What’s in it for me?” he says. “This fantasy scenario. What do I get out of it?”

“Depends,” says Jimmy, stroking down the small of Alastair’s back to the top of his arse, and back again. His movements, Alastair realises as he starts to retreat from his own high, are a little jerky; Jimmy’s not quite as calm as Alastair first thought.

So: “On what?” he says, and this time he lets himself be kissed, lets Jimmy’s tongue play with his.

“On whether you’ve been behaving yourself.” Jimmy, too, sounds half-breathless now. “If you haven’t, you’ll have to wait until the evening for your reward. If you _have_ —”

“I can be good,” says Alastair, brightly. “I can be _angelic_.”

Jimmy laughs. “Angelic’s not the sort of good I have in mind.”

“Still,” says Alastair. “I think fantasy-me has behaved _very_ well indeed. Based on your story. I think I deserve a bit more than being left sad and lonely in a shower cubicle.”

“And by _sad and lonely_ , you mean naked and frustrated, right?”

“Definitely frustrated.” Alastair tilts his head. “Not naked at the moment, though.”

Jimmy spreads his hands. “You know what to do about that.”

Alastair pulls his training shirt off with alacrity, but gets no chance to do anything about his shorts because Jimmy’s drawing him back against him with a sudden tight grip on his backside, he’s crushing Alastair’s mouth with his own and sliding a hand back down to his groin, wrapping his fingers around Alastair’s shaft, or at least as much of it as can be grasped through his shorts.

Alastair hisses a breath of annoyance through his nose – what he wants is skin, bare warm skin – but Jimmy’s grip is purposeful this time and – _fuck_ – actually this will do, this will do nicely, Alastair’s grabbing hold of the other man and kissing him back so hard that their teeth clash, and he tastes a brief tang that’s probably blood, doesn’t know whose it is, doesn’t care, pressure’s building so quickly now, fuck, need’s surging through him and he wrenches his face away—

“Jimmy,” he says. “ _Jimmy_. Shit. I’m close. Really close.”

“Could let you have it quick, for a change.” Jimmy’s hand slows, but its movements become, if anything, even more firm and deliberate. “You can come again, later. If you’re good.”

Alastair stares at him, as best he can, given the competing demands on his attention. “Not kidding. I’m about ten—” Alastair feels Jimmy’s hand on his balls again, squeezing hard, melting his words into a moan. “Ten…” He pants, gathers himself. “Ten seconds from making a mess of my shorts.”

“So?” The heel of Jimmy’s hand is back at Alastair’s cock, rubbing hard. “Just a shame it’s not your Test whites.” His grin has an edge that Alastair will remember, later. “Think about this the next time you’re tempted to go commando with Joe.”

In the event, Alastair lasts a bit more than ten seconds; but not much.

As he’s muffling his cry in Jimmy’s shoulder, riding the molten wave in his groin, the muscles in his thighs seem to sort of dissolve and he feels himself swaying. There’s suddenly an arm around his shoulderblades, another at his waist, and Jimmy’s saying, “Lean on me. Lean on me, I’ve got you.”

Alastair clings, takes a deep breath: in and out. Allows himself five of those, grounding himself.

Then he pushes away from the other man.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I can do it myself. I can stand. I can… Yeah.”

Stand he does: chest still heaving, hands on his hips, flicking absently at the waistband of his shorts, to counteract the shaking of his fingers, or maybe to hide it. The tiny snap each time he releases the elastic is the only sound in the room.

The problem with getting drunk on a person – if that’s what he was, if that’s possible – is exactly the same as with normal drunkenness: the part where you sober up and have to remember all the embarrassing stuff you said and did when you were in the middle of it. All Alastair can think of now is how needy he was, how much noise he made; how the crotch of his shorts feels slick and squidgy, aftereffects cooling against his skin about as quickly as his face is heating up.

Alastair clears his throat. “Well,” he says, then can’t think of anything else he wants to say.

“You okay?” says Jimmy, into the silence that follows.

“Mmm-hmm,” says Alastair, not quite trusting himself to speak.

“You’re not.”

Alastair shrugs. He glances up, without really meaning to; sees concern on Jimmy’s face and smiles, reflexively, to try to drive it away. “I, uh… apparently I don’t have much self-control.” His voice is thick. He isn’t sure if he wants to laugh, or something else, something much more embarrassing.

“Don’t need to,” says Jimmy, quietly. “Not supposed to worry about that. My job, remember?”

Alastair shakes his head, looks down. “But it’s…”

 _What?_ He doesn’t know. Something complicated. Distraction and fun and need and shame: all these things together, tangled; inextricable.

Jimmy moves in closer again; there’s a soft swish of cotton, but the sound stops, abruptly, and Alastair sees, out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy’s hand dropping to his side. Alastair squints at him. “What?”

“Can I… Is it okay if I touch you?”

“Of course!” Alastair doesn’t mean it to come out as an exclamation, and mostly it isn’t, but there’s definitely an edge of that; something unsteady.

Jimmy’s hand cradles Alastair’s jaw, tilting his face up so it’s level with his. “I’m in control,” he says, “so you don’t have to be. Well, okay, also because I want to be, but… It’s so you can let go, and not make any decisions more complicated than whether or not it _feels_ good, in any given moment. So you can relax, and make some noise, and be…”

“Greedy?” says Alastair, softly, with another cringe.

“Yeah. Greedy – as greedy as you like.” Jimmy watches him; it feels like his gaze sees a lot. “I’m not going to laugh at you,” he says. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I’d never do that. What we do together is… private. It’s ours.” He sighs. “We said we’d talk about this, didn’t we?”

This sounds like it’ll need a lot more effort and energy than Alastair has to spare, but he nods, anyway. “Tomorrow,” he says. He can always find a way out of it tomorrow, if needed.

“Okay.” Jimmy trails his other hand down Alastair’s bare chest, slowly, gently; over the waistband of his shorts, down towards the spreading damp patch there.

Alastair flinches, and Jimmy takes a firmer hold of his jaw, watches him for another moment and then gives him a brief kiss.

“Also, I’m not thinking _ugh_ because you came in your shorts, okay?” Jimmy’s mouth quirks. “Won’t lie, I’m feeling pretty good about it, actually. It was basically the goal, after all. As far as I’m concerned it’s a tribute to the prowess of my right hand.”

Alastair groans, gives him a playful shove. “The smug bastard returns.”

“Never went away.” Jimmy wraps an arm around Alastair’s waist, pulling him closer. “I’ve just been being polite. Really, it’s like you said the other night: I’m so fantastic in bed, you can’t help yourself.”

“Don’t think that’s _quite_ what I said.”

Jimmy taps Alastair on the nose. “Don’t spoil things by getting picky over details.”

Then there’s no space to reply, because his lips are over Alastair’s, they’re moving against his mouth, urging it to open up to a kiss. Which it does – he does – with relief, with relish. And, at length, with rising heat.

“Want to call it a night?” says Jimmy, when the kiss has run its course. “Won’t mind.”

“I’m good,” says Alastair. “I’m back.” He raises his eyebrows. “You promised me more action. And we have a new bed to break in.”

Jimmy looks over at it. “So we do,” he says. He scratches his chin. “I feel like we should do something, sort of, ceremonial. Like maybe I should carry you over to it or something.”

“Bad idea. You’ll snap like a twig if you try to pick me up.”

“What’re you trying to say?” Jimmy narrows his eyes. “You’re not the only one with a bit of muscle in your arms, you know.”

Alastair tries to resist the impish retort; fails. “Not quite on the same scale, though.”

“Cheeky git.” Jimmy braces himself. “You’ll see.”

“Don’t do it.” Alastair makes an effort to escape, although he doesn’t try that hard. “I’m too heavy for you.”

“That sounds like fighting talk.”

“ _Sensible_ talk.”

“Boring talk.”

Abruptly, Jimmy ducks, and before Alastair can brace himself he’s been scooped off his feet. He yelps in alarm, struggles, then forces himself to be still, terrified he really _is_ going to break Jimmy. The other man staggers a handful of steps, then drops him, clumsily; Alastair scrunches up his eyes as he feels himself slip from Jimmy’s grasp, but he doesn’t fall far, and lands on something soft. Jimmy collapses on top of him, half on and half off the bed.

Alastair holds his breath until Jimmy groans a bit, and rolls over onto his back, planting an arm across his face. “You’re heavier than you look,” he mutters.

“You say the sweetest things.” Alastair pushes Jimmy’s arm aside so he can see him properly. The other man’s face is flushed; his eyes are closed. “Are you all right?”

“Shoulder. Hurts a bit,” says Jimmy, faintly, lifting his right shoulder a little way off the bed and then letting it flop back down again.

Alastair goes cold. He swears, sharply; his heart’s racing. “Pete _warned_ us.”

“Don’t think this is what he had in mind.” Jimmy cracks open one eye. “Might help if you kiss it better.” Alastair starts to lean forward, pushing up the short sleeve of Jimmy’s shirt, then he stops, holding the one-eyed gaze with a look of suspicion until Jimmy snorts, and starts chuckling.

Alastair growls, and gives him an irritated, back-handed swat on the thigh. “Not funny. I need you. For this Test.”

Jimmy shrugs. “Can’t blame me for trying. Worked for Indiana Jones.”

Alastair sighs. “Idiot,” he says, then gives in, and leans down to sprinkle kisses over the smooth, pale skin of the other man’s shoulder.

This, and Jimmy’s smile, and again – always – his hands, prove more than enough distraction from their troubles for one night. Until, that is, a couple of hours later, when Jimmy retrieves his clothes, the door closes behind him, and a thought steals into Alastair’s mind, unbidden and unwanted and unwelcome.

 _One night gone_. Seven left, until the end of the Test.


	3. Chapter 3

Portrait of the fast bowlers’ union (not quite quorate) two nights before the start of the third Test: three overgrown lads lounging around a picnic table in the empty garden of their hotel.

Jimmy’s sitting with his knees under the table, about a foot from the left-hand edge of the bench (to avoid getting bird crap on his new jeans); he’s got his forearms crossed on the pale, sun-warmed wood of the table top, which is so new the evening air is scented with pine. Broady, in his training tracksuit, is perched atop the table, trainer-clad feet planted on the bench next to Jimmy. He’s half-turned towards the other side of the table, where Chris – in baggier jeans than Jimmy’s, and a white t-shirt bearing the artfully washed-out logo of some bar in Sydney – is settled with both legs stretched out on the bench and an elbow on the table-top. He’s caught the sun; his cheeks are even pinker than usual (which is saying something), and the tops of his pixie ears glow scarlet.

“Ready?” says Chris, hefting a royal blue, palm-sized bean bag.

Broady leans forward. “Bring it.”

Jimmy just nods, but subtly tenses himself for action.

Chris tosses the bag up, then smacks it, in mid-air, towards Broady, who lurches to his right to bat it in Jimmy’s direction. Jimmy pats it back to him smoothly, Broady gets a hand under it on the half-volley, and flips it, so it goes sailing over Chris’ head. Chris, grinning, lunges backwards – nearly toppling off the bench – and gets his fingertips to it, sending it almost vertically up into the air. Broady dives forward and intercepts it six inches above Chris’ chest, flicking it pretty much straight at Jimmy’s face. Taken by surprise, Jimmy swats it away reflexively, and it shoots right between the desperate, outflung arms of both Broady and a swiftly rising Chris.

The bag hits the gravel with a tiny crunch, and there are groans all round; Broady smacks a palm to his head. Chris swings his legs over to the ground, and bends down to retrieve it.

They’re at a bit of a loose end; the Rose Bowl put on a big buffet lunch for them this afternoon (well, most of them; Ali was off doing media things), and they all stuffed their faces to the extent that, even though it’s almost eight o’clock, no-one can really be arsed to make dinner plans.

It’s not clear whether the point of this game is to work together to keep the bean bag in the air, or to get it past each other; the goal shifts from round to round, and no-one’s keeping score. (Well, Broady was trying, but Chris and Jimmy ignored him, and once he lost a few times in quick succession, Stu got markedly quieter.) The only thing that’s stayed consistent is that leaving the table in any way ends the round immediately; precarious lunges, milked for every last drop of drama, are much more fun.

Chris and Broady found Jimmy out here about twenty minutes ago, just as he was finishing a call home. It’d been a frustrating, confining sort of afternoon, full of meetings with ECB solicitors over the Jadeja thing, and he headed outside with his phone the first chance he got, keen for some air.

Jimmy hasn’t asked how Chris just happened to have a bean bag in his pocket, but he’s been grateful for the distraction. And for the lack of questions; the two of them just settled around him like it was any other evening of relaxing in the sunshine.

The next round comes to a premature end when Broady topples over, slips head-first from the table, and just about holds himself up with one hand on the bench and another on the ground. With his feet waving in the air, he resembles an overturned beetle, and Jimmy and Chris are laughing hard when a happy-sounding shout rings out behind them. Jimmy pats Broady’s belly, then looks round to see a smiling Joe strolling over, with Jos in tow.

“Ey up, you lot,” says Joe.

“All right, Joe?” Chris hops to his feet and rounds the table; he helps Joe heave a now quite red-faced Stu back up into a more stable position, then goes to Jos, who’s hanging back, and gives him a quick hug. “How’s things?”

Jimmy doesn’t hear Jos’ reply, even though the pair are only a handful of feet away. Not for the first time, Jimmy wonders how the softly-spoken Somerset lad has been getting on this season with the Lanky lot (definitely not softly-spoken). He makes a mental note to ring Glen and find out; see if there’s anything he can do.

Joe sinks down to the bench, and leans back against the table-top (and Stu’s thigh). He turns his face to the sky, eyes closed, and lets out a contented sigh. “Come sit down, you two,” he says. “Jimmy, move up a bit.”

Jimmy sniffs, glancing down at the mess to his left. “I’m good here,” he says. “Plenty of space on the other bench.”

“Broady’s blocking all the sun to that side.”

“Sure Chris’ll sit on your knee,” says Stu. “Or Jos. Hey, Jos, what’s the lesser of the two evils, do you reckon? No sun, or Joe wriggling about and chunnering on in your ear?”

Jos smiles, dips his head, and stays where he is; so does Chris.

Without letting his serene smile slip for even a second, Joe jabs two fingers into Broady’s side, making the other man squawk. Then he closes his eyes again.

Jimmy remembers their encounter in Ali’s room last night, and says, “You not out for dinner with Cooky?”

“Nope.” Joe glances over at Jos, who’s still deep in conversation. “He, uh… can’t make it.”

“Oh.” Jimmy’s mind goes in several directions at once. Part of him’s a tiny bit pleased that Ali isn’t spending the evening with Joe, after all; part of him’s irritated with himself for even thinking that. Mostly, though, he’s wondering this: “Where is he, then?”

Joe shrugs. “Not sure. Definitely not in his room. Maybe at the ground, still? No idea what he’s doing there at _this_ time, though.”

“Captain things,” says Jimmy, absently. He keeps his hand away from his pocket, from his phone, from hitting the speed dial for Ali’s number. (There’s no need, he tells himself, to stalk the man.)

“Sounds like a rubbish job to me.” Joe raises his voice. “Me and Jos are off to that pub down the road. Belly said the food’s all right. Anyone fancy joining us?”

“Yeah, why not?” says Chris, with a wide smile. Broady nods, stretches, gets to his feet.

Jimmy starts to extricate himself from the bench, then hesitates. Maybe he _should_ check his phone. Maybe Ali’s texted _him_. Maybe he wants some distraction. Surely by _now_ he needs some distraction, whether he wants it or not—

“Coming?”

The sound of Stu’s voice is a jolt. Jimmy looks up: Stu’s standing just behind him, hands on his hips, angular elbows pointing sharply away from his slender waist. The others are already several yards away down the paved path around the side of the hotel. Joe’s singing something, with gusto; Jimmy can’t make out what it is, but it seems to require a lot of dramatic arm gestures.

“Uh…” Jimmy frowns down at his hands, resting lightly on the table-top. He can feel the grain of the wood under his fingertips; thinks about other things he wants to feel against his skin. He makes his choice. “Got something to do. I’ll, uh, catch you up.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just something I… I’d forgotten.” Jimmy looks up. “You know.”

Stu’s blue-eyed gaze is assessing. “Haven’t seen much of you, lately,” he says. “Look, this… disciplinary thing. You don’t have to deal with it on your own. You’ve got lots of mates, here. I’m always up for a quiet pint or whatever, if you need to get stuff off your chest. This, or anything else.”

“I know.” Jimmy manages a smile; the offer deserves one. “But it’s not that. You go on. Probably see you there in a bit.”

Stu nods, but he doesn’t look completely happy. He pats Jimmy on the back. “Later, then.”

Jimmy waits until they’re all well clear (he’s not sure why) before he slips out his phone and sends Ali a message.

_Little bird (or puppy) tells me you’re still at the rose Bowl_

He’s in his car and halfway to the ground when the reply comes.

_dont panic back for nine_

Jimmy thinks, _Not the point_ , and keeps driving.

\--

Fifteen minutes later, Jimmy’s picking his way across the outfield towards the nets, straining slightly under the weight of the drinks crate he’s somehow ended up carrying.

When he arrived at the ground, he slipped inside the pavilion, and the first thing he did was look out the nearest window to confirm for himself Ali was still there: still going through his paces in the nets, a helmeted figure alone in the vast green space, except for the one poor sod doing throwdowns for him (not Pete; someone stockier, with dark hair).

Then he popped his head round the door of the kitchens. There were five or six people still in there, evidently nearing the end of the daily clean up. He cleared his throat, awkwardly. “Am I too late for a snack?”

A red-haired, round-faced woman dropped the cloth she was using on a countertop, wiped her hands on a much-stained apron, and smiled at him. “Hang on,” she said, “I’ll do you a sandwich.”

“Can you make it two?” he said. He jerked his head in the general direction of the pitch. “I’ll take one out for my captain.”

A bearded guy, wearing one of the black turban-substitute head coverings that Jimmy associates with Monty, straightened up from the sink. “He’s _still_ out there?”

Jimmy didn’t know what to say to that, but there wasn’t any need, because at that point the kitchen swung into action.

“There’s some of that quiche left from lunch.”

“And the salmon. The salmon was great, he should definitely have some.”

“Yeah, even if you do say so yourself.” (General laughter.)

“I’ll grab something to put it all in…”

Soon they were presenting Jimmy with one of the Harrogate water crates, re-purposed as a picnic hamper, loaded with plates, napkins, and about eight courses’ worth of leftovers from lunch. He mumbled bemused thanks as someone tucked a blanket under his arm, and beat a hasty retreat – only to be chased down in the corridor by a girl with blue hair tied back in a rather haphazard bun. “I won’t tell your boss if you don’t tell mine,” she said, with a wink that made her eyebrow stud sparkle, as she lifted the lid of the crate to slip a bottle of red wine and two plastic cups in between the pork pies and half a roast chicken.

Jimmy couldn’t help but smile, and he still is doing now, as he reaches the nets and plonks the crate down.

“Evening,” he says. The guy with Ali is a new assistant coach; his name’s Tim, or Tom, or something, and he’s too new, Jimmy suspects, to realise he can say no to Ali. Jimmy nods at him. “Relieving you of duty,” he says.

(It’s possible he should offer to let the guy join in with the picnic, but… nah. He’s not _that_ noble.)

Tom (Jimmy’s pretty sure he’s a Tom) looks over at Ali, who throws Jimmy an exasperated glance, then says, “Yeah, go on. Let’s call it a night.” He flashes a smile at Tom. “Thanks very much.”

Tom – or maybe he’s a Sam? – doesn’t need telling twice; he’s gathering up his stuff and heading off before Ali’s even finished taking off his gloves. Then again, Ali’s not exactly rushing to leave the net, either; he’s inspecting his bat and muttering under his breath, mostly.

Jimmy chooses to ignore this; he’s familiar enough with grumpiness to know when to leave well alone. He concentrates on spreading the blanket, opening the crate, and laying out the food.

It takes a while, but eventually Ali comes over. “What are you doing?” the other man says.

 _Staging an intervention_ , thinks Jimmy, but what he says is, “Feeding you.” He takes off his shoes – enjoying the springiness of the grass beneath his feet – and sits down, stretching his legs out on the blanket.

“That’s… a lot of food.”

Jimmy looks up. Ali’s hair is a scene of post-helmet chaos, and his stubble-flecked cheeks are flushed; the western sky glows behind him. Jimmy would be tempted to take a photo, if he thought the camera on his phone could do the light justice. And the man.

He remembers, belatedly, to reply. “Think maybe the kitchen staff want to fatten you up.”

Ali goes still, mouth open a little way. “Oh,” he says, softly, brows knitting. “That’s… Oh.” He bows his head. “That’s really kind.”

Jimmy drops his gaze, to give Ali a minute to himself.

Eventually, Ali moves to sit. Jimmy looks him up and down – specifically, he eyes the bulk surrounding the other man’s thighs – and holds up a hand. “Wait. _All_ the pads off.” Ali plants his hands on his hips, but Jimmy greets the other man’s sceptical expression with a big smile. “Picnic blanket’s a pad-free zone.”

Ali sighs, pointedly, but the thigh pads come off pretty quickly, and then – with his gaze fixed on Jimmy and his eyebrows raised – he’s pushing one hand down his trousers and plucking out his box. In a gesture dripping with sarcasm, he raises the box up in the air, then lets it drop from head height onto the pile of his equipment.

“Happy now?” he says.

“Brat,” says Jimmy. “But at least you did what you were told.”

Ali sticks out his tongue, pulls off his shoes, and flops down on the blanket. He starts inspecting the food more closely. “Sometimes it’s a mystery to me why I like you.”

Jimmy passes the other man a plate, then starts loading up his own. “I think we both know the answer to that one.”

“Oh?” Ali reaches across the blanket for a bowl of salad that’s about eighty percent cherry tomatoes.

Jimmy shrugs, focusing on the food. “You can’t get enough of my dick.”

Ali snorts. “You’re so full of yourself.” He chucks a tomato at Jimmy, who tries and fails to catch it in his mouth (it bounces off his jaw). “Anyway, I’m not that shallow.”

“Really,” says Jimmy. He sets out the plastic cups, picks up the bottle of wine.

“Yeah,” says Alastair. “I’m quite fond of your mouth, too. Under certain circumstances, anyway…” He trails off, and when he speaks again, his voice is wary. “What’s that?”

Jimmy unscrews the bottle’s cap. “Exactly what it looks like.”

“Tomorrow’s the last day before the Test. I shouldn’t.”

“One glass won’t do any harm.” Jimmy pauses with the opened bottle tipped halfway to the cups. “And you wouldn’t want to hurt the feelings of the kitchen staff, would you?”

Ali holds his gaze a moment, then his lips curve in a smile and he tilts his head back. “Since you put it like that. Go on, then.”

Jimmy starts to pour; smiles a little to himself at the happy glugging sound of the first of the wine leaving the bottle. “Anything else?”

“Anything else what?” Alastair picks up a slice of quiche, takes a bite.

Even before Ali’s finished saying it, Jimmy’s already kicking himself. _How desperate do_ you _sound_ , he thinks, staring at his plate. Has to answer now, though. “Other reasons you, you know, like me?”

Ali chews and swallows carefully before he speaks. “This is _good_.”

Jimmy seizes on the new topic. “Apparently the salmon’s great.”

“Then I’ll try that next.” Ali starts moving things around the blanket; from the corner of his eye, Jimmy sees him help himself to a hefty chunk of pale pink fish. “Uh… anything else…? Oh. Yes. Hands.”

“Hands?” Jimmy glances at him.

“Yep.” Ali gives him an impish grin. “Guess I am shallow, after all.”

Jimmy passes over one of the cups of wine – watching his hand carefully as he does, to make sure he doesn’t spill it, and also because he’s still kind of chewing over what Ali just said – then picks up his own, so they can tap them together. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Ali drinks in silence for a moment, then holds his cup up to the light and says, quietly, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Check up on me like this. I’ve been in this job for a few years, now. I know what I’m doing.”

Jimmy studies the depths of his wine. “Every series is different,” he says. “Every match. Also, I haven’t eaten for _hours_ , and the food was pretty good the first time round, so.”

“Well. Thanks.”

They eat in silence for a while; Jimmy can’t tell if it’s a mutually awkward silence, or if that’s just in his head. When Ali’s done, he starts combining the diminished leftovers onto the same dishes, and collecting up empties; then he shuffles across the blanket to the hamper-crate, and peers inside.

There’s something about the way he pauses there (the curve of his back, the bend of his neck) that draws Jimmy in. Grabbing a mostly-empty plate, so he’s got an excuse for the move, he slides over, settling down on his knees just behind the other man. Ali’s supporting himself on one arm, and so Jimmy plants his own hand next to Ali’s. He reaches out with curled, tentative fingers, strokes the cool inside of Ali’s wrist.

“Looking for something?” he says.

Ali doesn’t look round; but he releases a breath, and leans back, against Jimmy’s arm. “I was hoping there might be some cake in here you just forgot to get out.”

Jimmy winces. He studies Ali’s profile: the length of his eyelashes, the shape of his jaw. He knows these things, and doesn’t know them; somehow the past few weeks have made the familiar seem strange. “I never even thought, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’ve done plenty,” says Ali, absently. Then, in a different voice: “Were there… were there many people around when you came in? In the ground?”

“No,” says Jimmy. No need to ask what Ali means. “But even one’s too many.”

“I know,” says Ali. “But, well. Shame. Nice evening, spontaneous picnic… even without cake, it feels like the sort of situation that should feature kissing.”

Jimmy can’t help but smile; still, this is getting a bit mushy, for his taste. He breaks the contact, sits back on his heels.

“Don’t stop,” says Ali, glancing over his shoulder. “Not yet.”

Jimmy can’t refuse the blatant come-on in those dark eyes. He wants to smooth down Ali’s hair; he wants to feel the heat in the skin around those cheekbones; he wants to kiss that tanned, muscular neck. Nothing fancy, nothing lingering, just a peck will do; surely no-one will spot it, if he’s quick?

 _Don’t be daft_ , he thinks. These things are impossible, out in the open like this; will never _be_ possible. He leans back in, positioning his body to (he hopes) obscure any view of what he’s doing from prying gazes with telephoto lenses, and resumes stroking. He says the first, most inane thing that comes into his head.

“You’re right,” he says. “It’s important to stay here and get a proper look at this thing. Need to weigh up how we’re going to stack the dishes.”

Ali nods, slowly. He pantomimes staring intently at the crate. “Wouldn’t want to rush into any careless arrangement.”

Jimmy gestures, vaguely, with the empty plate he’s still holding. “ _Exactly_ ,” he says. “Bad way to repay the kitchen staff for all this food.” With his other hand, he’s drawing secret little circles on the sensitive skin of Ali’s wrist.

“It’s a _very_ interesting crate,” says Ali, getting into the spirit of things. “Well designed.”

“Shame it’s for water from the wrong side of the Pennines. And the posh bit of the wrong side, at that.” Jimmy does his best to sound solemn and sensible. “So where do you think this should go?” He lets his fingertips explore a little further up Ali’s forearm, then back down again.

“Hmm.” Ali takes the plate, his hand brushing Jimmy’s as he does. (The skin stretched over Jimmy’s knuckles tingles.) “Maybe here?” He leans over Jimmy to reach the side of the crate furthest from him, steadying himself with a lingering touch on Jimmy’s thigh.

Jimmy clears his throat. “Or the other side.”

There’s something irresistibly silly about this whole situation, heightened by the way they’re studiously not looking at each other. He blows, gently, on the back of Ali’s neck.

“Yeah, that could work… Stop it, that tickles.”

Jimmy does it again. Obviously.

“Hey!” Ali ducks his head out of the way, then rounds on him. “Two minutes ago you were Mr Cautious.”

Jimmy almost succeeds in not looking down at Ali’s mouth. “What can I say? I just like teasing you. You were looking very… teasable.”

Ali’s eyes narrow. “Weren’t we going to have a conversation?” he says. “About teasing. And, you know, that sort of thing.”

“So we were.” Jimmy thinks for a moment, then stops stroking. He gives Ali’s hand a quick squeeze (surprising himself, and – to judge from the brief widening of the other man’s eyes – surprising Ali, too) then withdraws to his original spot on the blanket.

Ali watches him, expectantly. “Back to the hotel, then?”

Jimmy shakes his head, reaching for the chicken. “No,” he says. “Let’s talk here.”

“Really?” says Ali. “Didn’t we just establish we can’t be trusted together in public?”

Jimmy helps himself to second portions of pretty much everything in front of him before he answers.

“If we go back to the hotel,” he says at last, “we’ll just get sidetracked. Before we know it, you’ll have taken off your shirt, and I won’t be able to do sentences anymore, and then…” (he shrugs) “…well, sex, and we’ll have gone another night without talking.”

Ali snorts. “So it’s all _my_ fault.” He draws out the word my with evident relish, and accompanies it with a heavy-lidded gaze that Jimmy doesn’t _want_ to describe as _smouldering_ (it sounds so cheesy), but that’s more or less what it is.

“Yep,” says Jimmy. He waves a chicken leg at the other man in a gesture of banishment. “So stop looking at me like that, and piss off back to the other side of the picnic.”

Ali chuckles, but does move, scooping up some more salmon for himself before sitting down, cross-legged, at the edge of the blanket.

Which probably means Jimmy’s got to start talking. _Shit_. He gulps down some of his forgotten wine.

“So. We don’t have to decide everything tonight. Plenty of time to think things over.” Assuming Jimmy doesn’t get banned from playing this time next week. ( _Don’t think about that_.) “But if we’re going to do this thing, with me bossing you about, and… and you—”

“And me being, uh, submissive?”

Jimmy looks up, sharply; Ali’s gone red.

“I read up a bit,” he says. “While I was home.”

Jimmy tries to keep his alarm off his face. He suspects he fails. “On your home computer?”

“No, my laptop.”

“Oh, okay.” Jimmy starts to release a held breath, then freezes on another thought. “Wait… Your _ECB_ laptop?”

Ali gives a half-smile. “Yeah, but don’t panic, I deleted the browser history. I’m an innocent about a lot of things, but I was a teenage boy once.”

“So you—”

“Yeah.”

“Did you really—”

“Yeah.”

“And was it…?”

“Let’s just say eye-opening.”

Jimmy swallows. ( _Just when you reckon you’ve got him sussed_ , he thinks. _Huh_.) “Anyway. Right. Well. Point is, we need some ground rules. Boundaries. Things we want to do, or at least try. What’s definitely off-limits. And what might be, like, negotiable.”

They each lapse into silence, for a time. It’s Ali, at length, who starts.

“Well, talking of my online adventures. I’ve got one for the _no_ column.” His flush hasn’t much faded; his mouth works for a long moment before he goes on. “Bodily, uh… fluids? Substances? Anyway, they’re a no. I accidentally saw part of a video and… no. Just no.” He takes a hasty swig of his wine, doesn’t look up again afterwards. “Apart from the obvious one. And even that— I’d really prefer it if…” His face screws up in a grimace. “How can I put this? The whole thing with, er, coming on someone’s face?” He’s mumbling, now. “Not keen on that. Sorry.”

He keeps staring down at his cup. Jimmy puts as much reassurance in his tone as he can. “Okay, done. No problem. And don’t apologise,” he adds, firmly. “Better to say no _now_ than put up with something you really don’t want.”

If they were somewhere private now, Jimmy would lean over and try to smooch the tension out of Ali. He can convince better with a kiss than he ever could with words.

(But, words it has to be. It’s his own bloody fault, he chose the territory. So.)

“Look,” he says, “the way I see it, it’s no good being polite. We need to make sure we’re both enjoying what we’re doing.” Ali nods, slowly; Jimmy decides he needs to offer something in return. “For my part… I don’t like being pinned down. At least not without some warning. And no has to mean no.”

Ali looks puzzled. “Well, obviously.”

“You say that, but some people… I used to know a guy, him and his boyfriend liked to play games, pretend that one of them was… forcing the other. They had a codeword in case things got out of hand, and it worked fine for them, but… that’s not me.”

Ali’s quiet for a moment. “Because of Pup?”

Jimmy screws up his nose. He resents how Pup manages to muscle his way into everything, even private moments like this; but then, he’s the one who spilled his guts over the man, the other day. “Partly that. I just… want things to be clear. I don’t want to cross any lines. And also, if _I_ want to stop, like the other day, when we were pissed off with each other…”

“Then I should respect that, and not be a pain about it.” Ali nods, briskly. “Reasonable.”

“What about good stuff?” says Jimmy. “As you’ve probably gathered, I’m a fan of teasing.”

“More like tormenting, sometimes.” Jimmy tenses, but there’s a twinkle in Ali’s eye that takes the accusation out of his words. Then Ali tilts his head. “Why?”

Jimmy wasn’t expecting the question. He pretends to be absorbed in finishing off his chicken leg, before admitting to himself that he owes Ali honesty; that this is the point of the exercise. “I suppose… I like unravelling you. I like seeing you go from calm and collected captain to, like…”

“Gibbering wreck?” Ali offers, with a rueful smile.

“Ha. I was going to go with greedy, but okay. Anyway, I… get off on that. And doing it in semi-public places is even better, because it’s like I’m getting round even more inhibitions. But, as we’ve found, that doesn’t always work for you. So.” Jimmy sits up. “Ground rule me.”

“Okay.” Ali drinks some more wine; looks thoughtfully towards the pavilion. “In general, yeah, you’ve got the go-ahead. I mean, clearly I like it, too. I’m getting kind of horny just thinking about it.” He huffs a small laugh. “Honestly, what have you done to me? Anyway, so; yes, but probably stuff like groping my crotch in public is out. Maybe we decide in advance when it’d be a bad idea, and don’t even start? Because apparently my willpower crumbles once we get going; like we saw the other day, I might be up for more, in the heat of the moment, than I really should be. On the other hand, a quick smooch is never _really_ a bad idea… Hmm. This is tricky.”

Jimmy shrugs. “We don’t have to work out all the edge cases now.” He takes a bite out of a pork pie while he mulls it over. “How about, general principle: let me know when it’s a day you could use some stress relief, and when it’s a day that it’s likely to just make you more stressed? And I don’t go as far unless you specifically ask me to.”

“Deal. This is all very adult and sensible of us, isn’t it?”

Jimmy grins. “We can be adult in a different way later. Next. The thing with me being in charge seems to work for both of us. Right? I like telling you what to do, I like you being all well behaved…”

“And I like being, uh, manhandled. Including, apparently, spanking. Which has come as a bit of a surprise, because it never even _occurred_ to me before.” Ali wets his lips. “Yeah. Yes. In a weird way, I think… I think I like being helpless. But helpless in a safe way – like, I _could_ stop it, but I pretend I can’t, or… something. Does that make sense?”

Jimmy shifts position; Ali’s not the only one whose body is starting to wake up. There’s negotiation to do over the spanking, but that can wait. “Sure.”

Ali chuckles. “Glad it does to one of us. But… like you said last night, this is private. I don’t want it going beyond the hotel room. Or places like this picnic blanket. Nothing in front of other people, at least not stuff they might notice. Sneaky flirting’s fine. But nothing that interferes with my job in any way.”

“Understood. And I wasn’t planning to do anything like that. What else? What do you want to try out?”

“I… Well.” Ali flushes again, practically the colour of his wine. He covers his face with a hand; a long moment passes. “God, this is embarrassing. Do we _have_ to do this now?”

“If you’re too embarrassed to talk about it, we’re not doing it.” Jimmy can’t remember who first told him this, but he’s always thought it’s sound advice.

“I’m sure that’s unfair. Shouldn’t you just _know_ , or something? You’re the experienced one.”

Jimmy just waits him out; eventually the other man gives in.

“All right. So you mentioned, uh— You talked about… tying me up? That would…” Ali swallows, says faintly, “That would be. You know. Okay.”

Excitement starts to bubble up in Jimmy’s belly; he can’t quite control a grin. “That could be arranged.” He’s been hoping for this, more than he realised until Ali said it. (Mental images. Mental _images_.) “Blindfolds, too? Gags?” He hears a bit of a tremor in his voice.

Ali chokes on his wine. He takes his time clearing his throat and so forth. “Yes,” he mutters, eventually; almost inaudibly.

Jimmy smiles into his own cup. He can’t resist. “Sorry, what was that?”

Ali swears. “ _Yes_ , okay? I’m a… a weirdo, and I’d like to try both those things.” He mutters under his breath, putting down his almost empty cup, then flings himself down the blanket with a groan. He covers his face with a forearm. “Don’t think I should have any more of that,” he says. “Gone straight to my head. I’ve got to drive back.”

“You’re not a weirdo.” ( _You’re a lot of things_ , Jimmy thinks. _A lot more things than I ever imagined. But not that. Or else I am, too._ ) He stretches across to tip the rest of his own wine into Ali’s cup. “Tell you what. Leave your car here. I’ll drive us back.”

Ali rolls his head to the side, squints at his cup. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” he says.

A memory sneaks up on Jimmy; another night, another meal, another city, another Test series. Ali looking at him across a too-small (under the circumstances) table, saying exactly those words. Jimmy can’t remember what he said in response, only that it was awkward afterwards.

Such a contrast, and a relief, to be able to say what he wants, now. “Worth a try. Never know, I might get lucky.”

Ali’s arm is back across his eyes, but his mouth twists. “You’re going to get lucky. Trust me. Unless you ply me with so much wine that I pass out.”

“So about half a glass, then.”

“Oi.”

“You’re cute when you’re drunk,” says Jimmy, and regrets it immediately.

 _What on earth’s up with you this evening?_ he thinks. _Now he’s going to ask—_

“Cute how?” Ali lifts his arm a couple of inches from his face; he’s frowning. “Unless you find me throwing up on you a turn-on, and if so, I don’t want to know. I did, didn’t I, in Leeds last month?”

Jimmy remembers a park bench in the shadows, Ali curled up around him. “You threw up _next_ to me, actually.” He swallows, looks down at his empty cup, counting the droplets of wine caught in the ridges of the plastic, like dark red beads.

He thinks about the times he’s been drunk with Ali. Leeds, obviously: the smiles and the dancing before the throwing up. Nagpur: the kidnapped stump and the shameless flirting. Melbourne, four and a half years ago, celebrating victory in the Ashes with an almost-kiss. At the Oval last summer, after the latest Ashes: Ali leading him on a breakneck race through one of the stands, and then both of them climbing a fence that (in retrospect) was much too rickety to bear their weight, perching above a sheer drop and leaning over it. Andy Flower would’ve had kittens, if he’d seen them.

Jimmy shrugs. “Times like that, you’re… silly.”

Ali gives him a long look that Jimmy can’t completely read, but deadpan scepticism is high in the mix.

“I mean you’re adventurous.” (Great, that makes it sound like he thinks Ali’s boring, normally.) He tries again. “Uninhibited?” (That’s no more bloody useful; who _doesn’t_ lose their inhibitions when they get drunk?) He groans. “I’m shit at this,” he says. “It’s like… I don’t know, you just seem… lighter. Happier. Like all that weight you’ve got on your shoulders sort of slides off, for a bit.”

Ali’s quiet for a long time, gazing up at the sky. At last he says, “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe it’s not the alcohol? That if I'm happier at times like that, maybe it’s because of you?”

Jimmy stares fixedly at the blanket beneath him. He can’t answer that. Isn’t sure he even wants to think about that. There’s a pressure in his chest. Thoughts of his disciplinary hearing are crowding into the back of his mind. _Take a deep breath_ , he tells himself.

He lets the silence drift until he’s pretty sure they’re past the moment, then says, “Ready to go put some of this into action, then?”

Ali sits up, quickly. “ _Yes_. Please. Thought you’d never ask.”

They work together, hastily, to clear up the remains into the crate, shake out the blanket.

As they start to head back across the field, Ali says, suddenly, and there’s a smile in his voice, “One more thing for the _no_ category.”

Jimmy glances at him, for the first time since the alcohol conversation ended. “Go on.”

“Never, _ever_ , under _any_ circumstances am I calling you Daddy.”

Jimmy laughs, helplessly, most of the way back to the pavilion. “Glad to hear it,” he manages, eventually.

They leave the crate by the now locked kitchen. Jimmy takes the rest of the wine with him.

(Later, he’ll remember the second cup was empty by the time they’d done packing up the crate. He won’t be sure whether that means Ali drank the rest, or poured it away. He’ll never ask.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The Joe/Jos shipping hints come to you courtesy of my obsession with labonnetouche's [brilliant on-going fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3345158/chapters/7318121) about them. Thanks to her for letting me pick her brains about her plans for this pair, and for reading a draft of the first scene.
> 
> 2) Joe saying "Ey up" was inspired not by me being a horrible Yorkshire stereotyper, but by Joe himself - during the first Roses T20 match this season, Joe was given one of those roving headset/mic things, and the first thing he said when the commentators spoke to him was, "Ey up, Bumble!" This boy is made of adorable and silly.
> 
> 3) Many references to my earlier fics in here, for anyone who cares. The "Are you trying to get me drunk?" dinner that Jimmy's thinking of happened in ['Say What You Mean', chapter 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2722235/chapters/6097313). In terms of drunken episodes, Melbourne was covered in ['One Night in Melbourne'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2357837), Nagpur in ['Five Rooms...', chapter 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2433776/chapters/5654699), and Leeds in ['Say What You Mean', chapter 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2722235/chapters/6189869). The Oval one isn't from a previous fic.
> 
> For the background to the kink negotiations herein, see [the previous part of this series](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3674901/chapters/8125644), specifically chapters 3-4 (wherein the kink was first openly talked about), and chapter 6 (where things went a bit pear-shaped). There's also much more on Jimmy's disciplinary hearing in chapter 2 of that fic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for [piranhafish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/piranhafish/pseuds/piranhafish), who has been a huge encouragement to me when it comes to writing kink. Happy birthday :)

When he hears the knock at his door, Jimmy has half a mind not to answer it. He’s waiting for a delivery, of samples from his clothing range; has been waiting for days, in fact. There have been so many delays the schedule’s completely off, and he’s supposed to turn them round this evening, send them back with the same courier who’s bringing them. Which would be fine if the courier had arrived on time, but (surprise) so far there’s been neither hide nor hair, and it’s looking like he skipped the eve-of-the-Test dinner he planned with Mo and Sam and Belly for absolutely no reason.

So when he answers the door and it’s Ali, he’s not in the best of moods. He opens his mouth to say _Not a good time_ and _See you later_ , but he spots the strain around Ali’s eyes, and bites his tongue.

(He doesn’t open the door any wider, though, either.)

“You okay?” he says.

Ali shrugs. “Mind if I come in? Just for a minute.”

Jimmy steps aside, eyes the other man as he walks past. Ali’s in the big, faded blue jeans he wears about three-quarters of the time, plus a baggy black t-shirt that’s all stretched at the neck. Jimmy despairs a bit at the thought of Ali out in public dressed like this, although on the plus side the shirt _does_ offer an excellent view of his collar bone, so there’s that. (He almost succeeds in not imagining Joe staring at exactly this view all through dinner.)

“Sorry,” says Ali. “Lot of time being, you know, _on_ during dinner. And then a lot of people knocking on my door since I got back. I just want somewhere quiet for a few minutes. Then I’ll leave you alone, promise.”

Jimmy makes a vaguely sympathetic grunt, and ushers Ali over to a small armchair. (Jimmy’s room isn’t as big as his captain’s; he doesn’t get a sofa. Then again, Jimmy also doesn’t have a constant stream of grown men visiting him for pats on the head the night before a Test. On balance, he’ll happily give up the sofa to keep things that way.)

To stop himself fidgeting, he decides to sort out a drink. “How _was_ dinner?” he says, as he crosses the room.

“Good. Jos is nervous, but steady, I think. Joe was even giddier than usual. I think maybe he’s got a thing for Jos.”

“Nah.” Jimmy shakes his head as he inspects the contents of his fridge. “Jos knows better than to sleep with the enemy.”

“You remember the part where we’re teammates, right?”

“Some things don’t change.” (He’s joking. Mostly.) “Juice?”

“Yeah, thanks. What about you and me?”

“Yorkies are a special case.” Jimmy cracks open a Britvic can, and pours. “Plus, your lot’s in the second division, so you’re not really _rivals_ , as such.”

“Lancashire were in the second pretty recently, as I remember.”

“I don’t,” says Jimmy, serenely, as he walks back to Ali. “I have no memory of that.” He hands over the drink. Job done, he sits on the bed, checks his phone again; still nothing from the courier.

When he looks up, Ali’s sitting with his head tilted back against the armchair, staring into space. Normally Jimmy would leave well alone in this sort of situation, but there’s something about the other man’s expression. The tight set of his mouth, the frown lines on his forehead. Jimmy almost says _It’ll be okay_ , but that’s empty bollocks he can’t possibly guarantee; so:

“Least the dinner got you out of the nets a bit earlier, this evening.”

Ali groans. “Give it a rest.”

“Why don’t _you_? Rest, I mean. You’re going to run yourself into the ground.”

“Yeah…” Ali leans his head further back against the chair; Jimmy can’t see his face properly, anymore, but his tone is an uneasy mix of jovial and sharp. “Must be _really_ inconvenient for you to have to come and get me from the nets for your nightly shag.”

Jimmy is, for a moment, speechless. He swallows back his first response. And his second. “That’s not what last night was about.”

There’s a long, strained silence. Jimmy tries not to remember Swanny's words: _He needs you, and you're using him._

“Sorry.” Ali gulps down the rest of his juice in one go. “That was uncalled for. I’ve been on the verge of snapping at someone all day, and… Yeah. Sorry. I should probably get back to it.”

He puts his empty glass down on the carpet, starts to rise.

“Wait,” says Jimmy. There’s a pressure, again, in his chest. He hops up, gets in front of Ali just as the other man reaches his feet. “I was worried. I _am_ worried. That’s why I went to find you last night.”

“Well, you don’t need to be,” says Ali. “Everything’s under control.”

His smile’s brittle as he pulls on the untucked hem of Jimmy’s shirt to bring him in for a kiss, and Jimmy knows this is a ploy to end the conversation; but he goes along with it, anyway.

(And when they’re done, when they’re leaning in to each other, when there’s a forehead pressed against a flush-warmed cheek and Jimmy’s tracing the edge of one of Ali’s ears with gentle fingers, he glances down past closed eyes and is pretty sure the edges have smoothed off Ali’s smile – so that’s okay, isn’t it?)

“Sit down,” Jimmy says, and Ali does, and Jimmy hesitates just a fraction before moving in to straddle him, planting a knee either side of the other’s man thighs. The armchair’s too small for this, really, Ali’s legs are pressed tightly together, but Jimmy doesn’t miss the way Ali catches his breath (and catches his eye). As he takes Ali’s willing hands by the wrists, and presses them against the cushioned chair back, either side of Ali’s head, Jimmy's throat is tight with gratitude.

(That the days of tentative experiments, of uncertainty, of wondering if he’s getting the reactions he thinks he’s getting, are over; whatever else is going on, this is a touchstone and a turn-on, for both of them.)

“Trapped,” he says, with a half-smile that Ali returns with interest.

“Oh, _no_ ,” says the other man, in mock-distress. He wriggles a bit, which Jimmy takes as an encouragement to bear down with more of his weight on Ali’s thighs, and put more force into his hold on his wrists. Ali’s lips part, and Jimmy leans forward to capture them for a kiss.

Heat rises swiftly between them, now; Ali’s mouth is fierce and hungry against his own, goading Jimmy to respond in kind. He feels Ali shift, forcing himself into a position where he can push his groin against Jimmy. Jimmy lifts himself up on his knees, just enough so he’s out of reach, and pulls out of the kiss.

“You already know what I’m going to say, right?” says Jimmy, when their gazes meet.

Ali pouts. “I’m being impatient again.” He shuffles back into his original position, without needing to be told.

“Good. Now sit still, and you’ll get what you want when I choose to give it to you.”

This time Jimmy goes in to kiss Ali’s throat; an awkward angle, but he’s been itching to get at it since the man walked in with his stretched-out t-shirt so brazenly putting all that tanned skin and muscle on display. He slides his hands up, so he’s palm-to-palm with the other man; pushes his fingers between Ali’s. He licks his way along Ali’s collar bone, then decides to try going in with his teeth.

Ali startles; jerks away (or would, if he could move). “Hey,” he says. “That’s a two taps situation.”

“No biting?”

“No bruises. Not where cameras can see, anyway. Unless it’s somewhere I could plausibly have been hit by a ball.”

Jimmy grunts. “Need to get creative—” He feels a vibration against his knee, sees the languid pleasure drain out of Ali’s expression. “Leave it,” he says.

“But…”

(Ali’s wavering. And Jimmy’s thinking, _Time’s running out for this sort of thing_ , though he wishes he wasn’t. That fucking hearing, hanging over everything.)

“Please,” he says, without meaning to. To soften the edges of the need in that, he adds, “Just a few more minutes. This is fun.”

Ali draws in a deep breath, then nods. Jimmy lets go of Ali’s hands, delves into the deep pocket on Ali’s hip for his phone. (Takes his time, enjoys watching Ali squirm, fruitlessly – head pressed hard into the cushion, hands clutching at the sides of the armchair – in response to his touch.) Then he leans backwards, drops the phone on the carpet behind him, and feels his shirt being pushed up over his belly. He smiles to himself, decides that helping get the shirt off is a good way to reel Ali in.

It doesn’t go quite as he plans, though; while he’s still entangled in the shirt, the other man’s arms come round him, firmly, and there’s weight bearing down on him, not giving him chance to sit up, forcing him even further back, in fact. He grabs for the armrests; feels off-balance, precarious.

“You won’t fall,” says Ali, tightening his hold as he leans in to kiss Jimmy’s chest. His arms take Jimmy’s weight, reducing the strain on his thighs. “Got you.”

Jimmy’s not convinced, but the sight of Ali’s arms, muscles flexed, distracts him somewhat; the warmth of the mouth wending its slow way down towards the waistband of his trousers also helps. He settles a hand on the springy hair of Ali’s head, urging him on. When he feels an arm sliding away from his back (the other adjusts, to compensate), and a tugging at his belt, Jimmy mumbles, “ _Yes_ ,” more breathily than he’d like.

Ali’s answering smile against the skin beneath his belly button gives Jimmy the jolt he needs. Time, he decides, to redress the balance.

He grabs a handful of Ali’s hair. “Up,” he says. “Get up. Too many clothes.”

Ali chuckles, but doesn’t hang around. He’s down to his pants when two simultaneous noises interrupt them: the tone of Jimmy’s mobile getting a text, and the phone by the bed warbling into life.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jimmy mutters.

“Leave it,” says Ali, reaching for him with a playful smile, but Jimmy shakes his head.

“Been waiting for this, sorry.” He scoops up his shirt from the floor as he goes.

\--

 _Probably for the best_ , Alastair tells himself, as he gathers up his clothes; trying not to listen in, trying not to be disappointed at how abruptly Jimmy’s switched gears.

“Yeah,” he’s saying. “Yeah, okay. On my way.” He puts the phone down with a sigh, pulls his shirt on rapidly. “Right, hold that thought. Just got to nip downstairs. Be as quick as I can.”

Alastair looks down at the jeans in his hands. “Maybe this is a good place to call it a night…”

He trails off because Jimmy has stopped in the middle of pulling his shirt down over his chest; is staring at him in alarm.

“…What?”

“Don’t you _dare_ move,” the other man says. He steps up to Alastair, grips his shoulders tightly, herds him back to the armchair. “Ten minutes, max.”

Alastair resists, but not nearly firmly enough. “I should get back on duty.” He can hear the lack of conviction in his voice; the opening he’s leaving.

So, apparently, can Jimmy. Alastair feels the pressure on his shoulders increase; he gives in, lets himself be pushed down. Even then, Jimmy doesn’t let go.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, slowly and deliberately. “You’re not allowed to leave.”

There’s the hint of a smile playing at his mouth, but the words and the tone and the gaze and the weight, still, on his shoulders… Alastair finds he’s suddenly very short of breath. “How are you planning to stop me?”

Jimmy watches him for a moment, then another; then he grins, and moves faster than Alastair can react, grabbing Alastair’s t-shirt and jeans out of his unprepared hands and scrambling away. Alastair gives chase, but he’s too late: Jimmy’s darted into the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

Alastair bangs on the bathroom door. “Jimmy? Jimmy! Give me—” He hears running water. “What the— _Jimmy_!”

The water stops; the lock clicks. Jimmy opens the bathroom door.

“Afraid your clothes are a bit damp now,” he says.

Alastair leans around the door frame, sees his jeans and t-shirt in a sodden heap in the bath. “You bastard.”

“Guess you won’t be wearing them any time soon.”

He looks so pleased with himself that Alastair’s almost – almost – a little sad to have to point out the flaw in his plan.

“You do realise I’m in _your_ hotel room, right? You travel with more clothes than the entire rest of the team put together. You don’t think I can find myself something else to wear while you’re out?”

“Won’t fit you. Swanny tried that, once.”

“I’m sure there’s _something_ …” Alastair strolls over to the wardrobe, starts rifling through, ostentatiously.

Jimmy’s reaction is even swifter than Alastair expected. He’s up behind Alastair, catching his hands – catching his wrists – and pinning them in the small of his back. His breath’s warm on Alastair’s neck.

“So what you’re saying is, I need another way to make sure you stay put until I get back. Something more secure.”

Rush of blood, definitely not to the head. Not the one with his brains in, anyway. It’s a moment before Alastair trusts himself to speak.

“I think… I think maybe I am, yeah.”

He hears Jimmy swallow. “Keep your hands where they are.” He lets go, then pulls out a small, black bag from the wardrobe. Alastair tries to watch over his shoulder, but Jimmy smiles and says, “Face forward.” And Alastair, again, does as he’s told.

He hears the bag’s zip once, twice. Then there’s a pause, and he holds his breath until he feels something touch his crossed wrists: rope, he assumes, though it feels softer than he was expecting as Jimmy winds it around his wrists. Not being allowed to look round is maddening; no matter how he concentrates, he can’t keep proper track of what Jimmy’s doing, of how many twists there are or what the knot’s like. All he knows is that at a certain point, his hands are trapped behind his back.

“How’s that?” the other man says, at last. His lips are moist at the back of Alastair’s neck. “Not too tight?” Alastair feels a finger slip under the rope; tugging, testing.

Alastair tries to roll his wrists, exploring how it feels; each time he meets the limit of his movement, he gets a swell of arousal. He takes a shaky breath, and lets himself think it out. He likes this; god, but he likes this. When Jimmy pins him down, at the back of his mind he always knows he can break free. Not now. Now he’s really surrendered control to Jimmy. The awareness of his helplessness goes to his head like strong wine. It goes to his gut, to his groin, like a shot of pure adrenaline.

He glances at the other man over his shoulder. “Feels good,” he says.

Jimmy doesn’t meet his gaze; he’s staring at Alastair’s hands. “Fuck,” he says. “Ali… I just—” His voice falters and he stops, visibly collects himself. He circles Alastair, looking him up and down, trails fingertips across his skin as he goes, making him shiver. “You look… _so_ good. That… yeah.” He stops in front of Alastair, still gazing with wide eyes.

Alastair tries, reflexively, to reach for him, gets a sharp reminder that he can’t, sees Jimmy catch his breath. And it comes to Alastair that he’s not completely given up control, after all. He tests the bonds once more, letting Jimmy see his muscles strain.

Jimmy draws in a breath, sharply; looks away. “Right. Well. These are going to be the longest ten minutes of my life.” He hesitates. “Sure you want to do this? First time… I probably shouldn’t leave you on your own.”

“Sure,” says Alastair.

“Then go sit on the bed. No. Wait. Hang on. Changed my mind about letting you keep your pants.”

He pauses, and Alastair knows he’s being given space to object. _I can do this_ , he tells himself, and stays quiet, but he keeps his gaze trained on the other side of the room as Jimmy makes short work of stripping him of his last defence. He does watch, though – can’t help it – as the other man neatly folds the pants, and stashes the inch-thick bundle of black cotton in his back pocket.

Then he slaps Alastair lightly on the arse. “Bed,” he says.

Settling himself without being able to use his hands is awkward and undignified, especially with Jimmy calling out instructions about his position: back to the headboard, legs spread.

“Absolutely sure?”

“I trust you. And sooner you get moving, sooner you’ll be back.”

“Don’t be cheeky,” Jimmy says, but distractedly; he’s tapping at a mobile. Alastair realises it’s his own. “Right. My number’s up on your phone. If you want this to stop, for any reason – cramp, boredom, need to piss, whatever – you call me, okay? All you’ve got to do is swipe the screen to wake it up, then jab the green button. No need to say anything. I’ll be straight back, fast as I can run.”

Jimmy insists on a test. Alastair thinks this is rather silly, but something in Jimmy’s expression stops him saying so. He fumbles a bit – can’t hold the phone properly, has to leave it on the bed and crane his neck to see what he’s doing – but manages it. They both release held breaths when Jimmy’s phone buzzes.

“Good.” Jimmy takes Alastair’s phone back, resets and returns it. “Ten minutes, then.”

He takes his keycard from the slot by the door on the way out – and so the lights go when he does.

\--

Jimmy’s stride eats the ground on the way to the lifts. His pulse beats out the rhythm of his excitement. He’s tense, will be until he gets back and knows Ali is okay; this is a risky thing they’re doing, stupid and terrifying and glorious. It could go very wrong.

Waiting for the lift to arrive, he paces. He strokes a hand over the bump in his back pocket, where Ali’s pants are. He doesn’t know what made him take them, but he likes the reminder of the scene that’s waiting for him, back there. Three times he turns to head back to his room, and three times he stops himself.

It comes to this: Ali trusts him, and he trusts the other man to ask for help if he needs it.

\--

At first, Alastair’s high as a kite on the strength of his arousal; he’s so busy picturing what’ll happen when Jimmy comes back that he barely notices the time going by.

After that, he starts looking at the clock a bit more. It takes an age for the glowing green digits – eye-wateringly bright against the darkness – to change from 20:40 to 20:41. The next minute feels longer.

\--

Jimmy skims through the samples without seeing them at all, and has to make himself stop, go back to the start, and look them over properly. The attached note explains the changes he’s supposed to be looking for, insists that he _must_ try on the suit jacket and one of the shirts.

He does the former; asks the courier’s opinion, is met with a shrug of such indifference that (on any other day) he would’ve been proud to have produced it himself. Tries the glass doors at the entrance, but can’t see his reflection clearly enough. Gives in and heads for the loo, checking his watch en route. (Seven minutes and counting.) No sodding mirror in the gents, so he pops his head round the door of the ladies, which is (mercifully) empty and has three full-length mirrors.

Tries the shirt, too. Fine. Both fine. Hurries out, nearly bowling over a woman walking in.

(It’s taking too long. Should he text? Ali’ll have to go a different screen to read it, won’t have the number up then if he needs a rescue. And he’ll be back soon, won’t he?)

The courier won’t take the package back unless it’s securely sealed. It takes an age for the receptionists to scare up a roll of selotape.

(Eleven minutes. Twelve. _Shit_.)

\--

Alastair fidgets.

As the initial flush of excitement subsides, embarrassment rushes in to take its place. What on _earth_ , after all, is he doing? He’s sitting stark bollock naked on another man’s bed, alone in the dark with his hands tied behind his back. If anyone walks in, there’ll be no explaining this one away, not with an erection bobbing about whenever he moves, like a big neon sign, or a newspaper headline: _Captain COCK Caught Out In Bizarre Sexcapade!_

One slight consolation is that it took him just over a minute to decide on that headline. He knows; he timed it on the bedside clock.

 _Shit_ , he thinks, then realises he said it aloud to the air-conditioned silence. He repeats it because, well, it's not like there's anyone around to hear: “Shit.” What if this whole thing turns out to be some elaborate prank? What if Jimmy’s laughing at him right now, down in the bar, at how he played along with Alastair’s hilariously weird idea?

A more rational bit of his brain explains, patiently, that it would have to be a seriously elaborate prank, a month in the making.

Alastair slides his feet back and forth across the sheets, watches the clock, clutches at his phone, and reminds himself that he trusts Jimmy.

And that he is patient.

\--

When the lift doors open in the lobby, Joe (of course) spills out of them. Jos follows, at a more sedate pace.

As Jimmy’s trying to disentangle himself from the inevitable hug – while keeping a foot in the way of the closing doors, so no fucker on some other floor can steal the lift away from him – he exchanges glances with Jos. The wicketkeeper’s smile is faintly abashed, but his pale eyes (before they dart away from Jimmy’s view) are sparkling.

He manages to fob off Joe’s invitation to join them for a kickabout in the carpark, on the entirely reasonable grounds that it’s almost nine o’clock, and the car park has (surprise!) cars in it.

The conversation takes the best part of two minutes, though. As Joe, giggling, steers the equally merry Jos away through the lobby (hands at his waist, forehead planted between Jos’ shoulderblades like they’re auditioning for the part of a hunchbacked pantomime house), Jimmy waits for the lift to take him upstairs, and stares at his watch.

Seconds tick away, inexorably, and Jimmy feels something like panic build in his chest. Ali’s going to think he’s doing this deliberately, to tease him. He’s never going to trust him again, and rightly so. Again Jimmy thinks about texting; but he’s almost there. Eighteen minutes.

\--

 _Break it down_ , Alastair thinks, _into smaller chunks_.

This has always been his strategy for long stays at the crease. Those things he used to be so good at, and isn’t anymore. He would break the long hours down by session, by a bowler’s spell; even over by over, if he needed to. No need to snatch at runs, to force things; the bad balls would come. Bad balls always came, eventually, even it took him four overs to get off a duck; he just needed his patience and concentration to outlast the bowlers’.

He’s never been a pretty batsman, or an audacious one; no-one ever swooned over one of his shots like they do over Belly’s cover drives or KP’s switch hitting. But patience and concentration: these things he can do, could do, better than almost anyone else in the world. He endured hours in the Australian summer sun without breaking sweat; surely, then – he’s been telling himself, for months – he can wait out the storm over Kev and the Ashes and everything, and do the job the ECB picked him for?

Somewhere along the line, he’s lost his patience. Somewhere, somehow, he needs to rebuild that patience, and with it – he can admit this, to himself, in the darkness of Jimmy’s room, with literally nothing to hide behind – his confidence.

By comparison, these twenty minutes, or whatever it is, he’s had here tonight? This is nothing. He can break this down, he can get through it a minute at a time; and eventually Jimmy will be back.

\--

Jimmy almost makes it back with no more incident. Almost.

But he’s too preoccupied for the last few feet of the corridor, is already pushing his unlocked door open when he realises Broady’s behind him, talking at him.

“Evening. Seen Cooky?”

Jimmy wills himself not to flush, or to punch the door in annoyance. He keeps his gaze on his white knuckles around the door handle.

“Not recently,” he says, which is painfully true (has it been twenty minutes, now? twenty two?).

“I just need ten minutes with him about my field settings.”

Jimmy grits his teeth. He won’t snap. “If I see him, I’ll tell him you were looking for him. Night.”

Broady goes nowhere. “Come on, bud. You must know where he is. He tells you everything.”

There isn’t enough time in the world for Jimmy to catalogue the ways in which that statement is more right than Broady realises, and also utterly wrong.

“Sorry. Can’t help you.” He shrugs. He’s angry, now; with himself for leaving Ali alone, and with the whole bloody demanding lot of them for _not_ leaving Ali alone. “But maybe think about giving him a break until tomorrow morning, yeah?”

He bustles into his room without waiting for a reply, slams the door shut. Puts the card in the slot for the lights – and finds himself staring at an empty room.

\--

When Alastair heard Broady’s voice floating in through a part-open door, he decided that patience only gets you so far. Heart in mouth, he took a gamble, launching himself from the bed – stumbling to stay upright, with no way to use his arms for balance – and dashing headlong for the bathroom. He shouldered his way through the door, shoved it closed behind him.

And now here he is, bare feet cold on the bathroom floor, wary; trying to work out if Jimmy’s alone. It turns out pulling open a door from the inside – even just a little way, just enough to see – is quite tricky with your hands tied behind your back. By the time Jimmy’s called his name three times, though, the anxiety in his voice sweeps away Alastair’s caution.

“In here,” he says; then, more loudly, “In here!”

He steps back, just in time, just before Jimmy comes barrelling in, flinging open the door so hard it bounces off the wall. “Ali,” he says, and his voice is shaking. One hand’s half-covering his mouth. “Fuck. I’m so— This is all my fault. Fucking _stupid_ idea to leave you like that…”

As apologies tumble from the other man, Alastair tries to get a word in edgeways; fails. _Not often you can say that about a conversation with Jimmy_ , he thinks, and snorts with laughter before he can stop himself.

“…get you out of that,” Jimmy’s saying, now, and he’s lunging for Alastair’s bound wrists – and here, finally, Alastair makes himself heard.

“ _Stop_ ,” he says, in the captain voice he hardly ever uses: sharp, stern, distinct.

Jimmy goes still; in the harsh glare of the bathroom light, he looks stricken. Alastair meets his distress with the calmest smile he can conjure.

“I’m okay,” he says, warmly. “I promise you I’m okay. I mean, you gave me a _bit_ of a heart attack there at the end with Broady, but honestly… I’m good. I… Well.” He shrugs, a little awkwardly, for obvious reasons. “I found my patience.”

Jimmy’s gaze searches his face. “Really?”

“Really.”

Alastair abruptly finds himself enfolded in a fierce hug. He clambers over the mountain of his surprise, and relaxes into the embrace, closing his eyes. A little later, he manages to coax Jimmy into a quiet kiss. He feels a hand slide down his back; brush against the rope at his wrists, then venture, tentatively, onto his backside. He opens his mouth wider into the kiss, inviting Jimmy’s tongue in.

“I’m ready to carry on,” Alastair says, later, when they come up for air. “If you are.”

“So I haven’t scared you off, you know…” Jimmy touches, again, the bonds trapping Alastair’s hands. “This?”

“Nope. Okay, so, leaving me on my own probably isn’t an experiment we want to repeat.” _Especially_ , Alastair thinks, but decides it better not to say, _if it freaks you out this much_. “Given where we are and everything. But otherwise… success so far.”

After that, they get back into the swing of things pretty quickly: soon Jimmy’s hands are exploring, soon their kisses are breathless, soon Alastair’s being manoeuvred back out into the main room, soon he’s being told to kneel beside the bed.

Jimmy stands over him, hand in the hair behind Alastair’s ear, tilting his face upwards. “You look pretty much perfect like this,” he says. “Naked and bound and kneeling. Only way you could improve the picture…”

Alastair gives him a crooked smile; shifting his weight onto his knees, he leans forward – pulling against Jimmy’s grip on his hair, rolling his wrists so he can feel the rope there – and presses his lips to the bulge in Jimmy’s trousers. “Yes,” he breathes, into the fabric.

“Ask nicely,” says Jimmy. “Tell me how much you want it.”

Alastair’s too far gone, now, to feel much embarrassment at this. “Please,” he says. “I want you. I want your… your cock.” Okay, maybe he’s still a bit embarrassed. But Jimmy’s stroking his hair, murmuring _Good_ ; a reward for saying what he means. Alastair leans into his touch, closes his eyes, steels himself. “I want you in my mouth. Weighing down my tongue. I’ve been wanting it since we were on that armchair.”

“Why?”

Alastair wets his lips. Jimmy’s pulling him back against his groin; Alastair slides his cheek against the smooth fabric of Jimmy’s trousers, kisses the shape of his shaft, again.

“I don’t have to talk,” he says, at last. “ _Can’t_ talk. Sometimes I want that. Sometimes I’m sick of stumbling through words and sentences and all the… the platitudes I’m trained to say. And this is the one thing— Last night, you said you like to see me unravelling. Well, this is the only thing I can do that makes _you_ unravel.”

It’s a good mix between the different sides of him, especially like now, on his knees with his hands tied: the part that enjoys being powerless, and the part that wants, just every so often, to take the lead and see Jimmy gasping, for a change.

But he doesn’t get chance to say this, because Jimmy, abruptly, drops to his knees beside him.

“That’s not true,” he says, looking down at the carpet. “It’s not. You unravel me all the time. You’ve got no idea. Sometimes, I...”

 _I’ll break_ , Alastair thinks; _tonight of all nights I will break, if this continues_. He needs to move things on.

“So are you going to let me get to work?” he says, with his very best seductive smile, and Jimmy chuckles, and stands, and leaves; comes back with something else from that bag in the wardrobe.

“Don’t laugh,” he says, holding up a small pink plastic ball. It makes a tinkling sound.

Alastair does his best. “What…?”

“It’s, uh… it’s a cat toy.” As Alastair loses the battle against laughter, Jimmy’s voice goes higher-pitched in protest. “I was in a _petrol_ station, it was the only thing I could _find_ …”

“But what’s it _for_?”

“Well. If you can’t speak, and you can’t tap, we need… _something_.” Jimmy’s looking more sheepish by the word. “It’s got a bell.”

“One shake for yes, two for no?”

“Come on, don’t laugh. I can’t be comfortable unless I know for sure _you_ are.”

Alastair remembers Jimmy’s distress, earlier, and smooths the amusement off his face. He nods, takes the ball when Jimmy presses it into his palm – and finds, at length, that it’s useful, actually. A way, however limited, to let Jimmy know how it feels when he first leans forward on his knees, and takes the hard weight of the other man in his mouth.

Because he _likes_ this. It’s trickier, as he knew it would be, without a hand free to work the base of Jimmy’s shaft; harder work on his jaw. But the bonds at his wrists – the shiver of pleasure he gets whenever he tests those bonds – more than make up for that. They boost that delicious sense of helplessness.

The helplessness is an illusion; the ball in his hand is a safety net, for both of them. But the illusion is vivid; it gives license. With his mouth full, his hands tied, and Jimmy’s tight, commanding grip on his hair, Alastair can give up responsibility, here, can let the pretence of having no choice in the matter give him a respite from a life full of choices. All he has to do is lick, and suck, and listen to Jimmy’s moans and curses – and let his mouth be fucked, slowly and thoroughly.

\--

It’s after eleven when Jimmy helps a spaced-out, slightly floppy Ali to the shower. He waits outside until Ali’s done, then wraps him in a towel and leads him back across the room to the bed. He inspects Ali’s wrists, rubs cream into the red marks the rope has left behind.

He should have been more careful, he tells himself, as he yawns his way back to the shower. Should’ve kept a closer eye on things. But the marks are already fading, and he’ll know better in future.

(All five days of it, or whatever the next week brings.)

There’s so much he doesn’t know. So much he could get wrong. Tonight, at least, has been salvaged, but he needs to get better at this.

He showers, then wrings out Ali's clothes and hangs them up over the shower curtain rail to dry. When he returns to the bed, Ali’s fallen asleep, sprawled in the damp towel. Jimmy struggles for a moment, then admits to himself that he never intended to send the man back to his own bed. He extracts the towel, pulls sheets over him – Ali stirs, briefly, mumbles something unintelligible, and drifts off again – and then goes round to the other side of the bed, where he lies on his back and dissects the evening in his mind, until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd be exaggerating if I said that the whole of 'An Indian Summer' exists because I wanted to, um, meditate upon the image of Alastair Cook on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. But, you know, not that much. (It's possible I've been writing snippets of this since last summer. Though earlier versions were *very* different.)
> 
> I'm not the only one who's fond of this idea, it seems; on tumblr, alastair-is-perfect has provided [a helpful visual reference](http://alastair-is-perfect.tumblr.com/post/122931867055/it-looks-like-his-hands-have-been-tied-behind-his).
> 
> But above all, this chapter clicked into place for me when tanyakini posted a link to [this very interesting article](http://www.thecricketmonthly.com/story/888421/cook-s-pickle) about Cook. (Not because there's anything even slightly about kink in there, but because of the way it highlights the importance of stubborn patience to Cook as both player and person.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to labonnetouche for reading a version of this chapter, and discussing it with me <3

It’s all going wrong, again.

He’s flailing at everything outside off-stump, again. His heart’s in his mouth with every delivery, like each ball is the first he’s ever faced and he’s not sure what he’s doing out there in the middle. Poor young inexperienced Sam is watching him from the other end of the wicket with huge eyes, and when they wander together to confer between overs, he makes mumbling attempts at reassurance. The injustice of it is enormous, and almost laughable; a guy whose Test appearances can be counted on the fingers of one hand shouldn’t be having to reassure his _captain_ , for crying out loud. The sunlight’s so bright he’s seeing the world through a tiny, squinted sliver of a gap, and even that feels too much. He wants to hide in the darkness behind his eyelids, but can’t seem to close his eyes properly. And then finally finally _finally_ he gets an outside edge and, when the catch is taken, it’s as if everyone – Sam, the umpires, the Indian players, the entire crowd – breathes a sigh of relief.

 _everyone, even himself_ —

Alastair opens his eyes on daylight; but it’s daylight muffled by curtains, not the headache glare that was just beating down on him. He isn’t out there, yet, he’s not starting the long trudge back to the pavilion, yet, he’s lying on his back in bed. The Test starts this morning, and none of that has happened. Yet.

There’s a slight rustle of sheets beside him, and he realises – with a jolt – that he’s not alone. Jimmy’s here, and there’s a crease in his forehead and he’s watching Alastair, intently. Alastair closes his eyes, quickly; maybe he can pretend he’s still—

“Looked like an epic dream,” Jimmy says, softly.

No pretending, then.

Alastair opens his eyes again, glances around the room. Piles of clothes of the floor, cologne and hair gel and goodness knows what else in abundance: Jimmy’s room, then. Alastair doesn’t remember Jimmy asking him to stay; but then, his memory of the latter stages of last night is hazy. Pleasant, but hazy.

He fixes his gaze on the ceiling; swallows. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. Sorry.”

“You didn’t, it was the light – curtain open. Got up to close it. But then you were muttering, and kind of shuffling, so…”

Alastair wants to know how that sentence finishes. No, he doesn’t want to know. He lies still, takes some deep breaths, clenches and unclenches his fists in an effort to release the tension from the dream. He needs, he decides, to be doing something.

He rolls over, props himself up on an elbow; gropes for his phone on the bedside cabinet. As he does, he catches sight of a faint red mark on the underside of his right wrist: an inch long, the width of a thumb, it looks like a smear of faded paint. He traces it with his fingertips. The slight roughness of it brings up a snippet of memory: hot water trickling over welts on his skin as he stood in the shower. This mark is a ghost, he realises; the only trace of what they were doing last night.

Not quite: it’s there, in his memory. It settles in, a calm space in his mind. He smiles to himself.

Then he wakes his phone, and starts to type.

“What you doing?” Jimmy’s voice, from behind him, is a sleepy mumble.

“Texting Pete. Going to go and do some drills.”

“What? No.”

There’s movement behind him; Alastair’s skin prickles. A hand closes on his forearm, and his fingers lapse into stillness of their own accord, the message unfinished.

“Too early for drills,” Jimmy says.

Alastair refuses to look round. “It’s morning.”

“Only in the technical sense.” Alastair feels Jimmy shift. “I can see the clock. It’s five AM. Not even five AM.”

“Bet Pete’s up already. Bet you any money.”

“Don’t care. Too early.”

The hand on Alastair’s forearm is moving, just slightly; Jimmy’s thumb and forefinger are conjuring shivers from Alastair’s skin with aimless little caresses. And it isn’t _fair_ , it shouldn’t be this easy, he shouldn’t be this weak—

“I need to train,” he says, and knows he’s saying it to convince himself as much as anything.

“Not yet, you don’t.” Jimmy’s other hand comes round, plucks the phone from Alastair’s unprotesting fingers. “You’ve put in plenty of hours over the past three days.”

 _Not this again_ , Alastair thinks.

“I’m just going to go for a run,” he says, “then get Pete to do some throw-downs in the nets for me. Back for breakfast.”

“But maybe… given how stressful things are at the moment—”

Stress. Alastair wishes people would stop brandishing that word at him, like it’s both cause and solution for everything. “I’m fine. I just don’t know where my bloody off-stump is.” He pulls his arm away from Jimmy; rubs his palm over his face. He will not snap, he tells himself; not like last night. “I just… I want to feel like I’m doing something. Like I’m still trying.”

“Ali… come on. No-one has any doubts about that.”

“I do,” Alastair says; hears himself say. He hangs his head; but once this is voiced, he might as well go on. “I worry that I’m not trying hard enough. I _know_ I’m not contributing. I’m…” He shakes his head. If he keeps his gaze on his pillow, it’s almost like he’s saying this to himself, and not confessing – showing this weakness – to Jimmy. “It’s all riding on me. All of it. Not just this match. Not just this series. The whole rebuilding. When they got rid of Kev, all that stuff, they staked everything on me. _Trusted_ me. So I’ve got to be what they need me to be.” He sighs. A huge honour; despite everything, he’s still proud to captain this team, every day. And yet. “Then there’s all these young guys we’ve got in the team now. Talented, committed, energetic – and getting more ground down every time we lose. Or you, at Headingley, on a hiding to nothing for that final wicket, having to do my job for me.”

Jimmy starts to say something; Alastair cuts him off with a gesture, still not looking round. He’s not done yet.

“And I _can’t_ … I can’t do it. I can’t even bat.” This is the truly bewildering, the truly hurtful part. “I love batting, I’ve always loved batting. And now… It’s like I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m… afraid. I’m actually _afraid_ to walk out to the crease today. Can you believe that?”

He’s seen the pitch, though; if he wins the right to decide, they _have_ to bat first, whatever his personal qualms. It’s not even a question.

Jimmy’s hand is back; it’s on his shoulder now. Alastair lets it stay there, even though he shouldn’t. After all, if he can’t deal with this by himself now, how will he cope out in the middle, when he really will be alone?

He wants to lean back into the other man, and forget, for a while. But.

“This is it,” he says. “It’s almost over, unless I can turn things around. And the only way I can do that is to keep trying. So I can’t give up. I’ve got to do everything I can.”

Silence, then. A long silence. Alastair waits, although he doesn’t know what for. Denial? Reassurance? Another hug, like last night? He’s not a child.

There’s a part of him that wants to stay; no denying that. It’s not like he gets the chance to wake up next to Jimmy very often, after all. But the silence goes on, and what he just said isn’t any less true because the bed’s comfortable and the company’s appealing. He’s on the verge of rolling over to reclaim his phone, he’s telling himself he’s _not_ a bit disappointed that he’s won this argument – because he’s right, he’s absolutely right, he knows he is – when Jimmy finally speaks.

“How about a deal,” he says. “Stay here till six. Another hour of sleep, _then_ see Pete. And no nets, this morning. Just a run. Something to clear your head, not scramble it more.”

Alastair turns this over in his mind. Maybe he could stay for a while. Not just a _while_ , a specific length of time: there’s a structure here, a plan. And he doesn’t have to stick to the thing about the nets; it’s not like Jimmy can stop him once he’s at the ground.

“You know,” he says, rather than answer immediately, although in truth that’s probably an answer in itself, “back home I’d be getting up around this time anyway. Farms wake up with the light.”

“Sounds hellish.” Jimmy shudders. Alastair feels it along his arm, against his back; he’s not sure when Jimmy moved so close. “Good job the ECB has organised us so much cricket over the next eighteen months. Keep you away from there.”

It isn’t exactly funny, but Alastair breathes a quiet laugh, despite himself. He lets himself sink back down to the mattress, staying on his side, facing the clock. Jimmy lets go, moves away – but not far, certainly not back to the other side of the bed. Alastair can hear him breathe, behind him; could swear he can still feel his warmth.

There’s an ache in Alastair’s arms, and in his thighs; more ghosts of last night. Jimmy worked him hard, as Alastair wanted him to; he needed something intense, last night, to distract him. His mind sidles back there, and he lets it, lingering over images and sensations.

He remembers Jimmy helping him up onto the bed, remembers insisting on his hands staying tied, then checking himself and asking, instead. He remembers Jimmy refusing to let him lie on his back, remembers him saying, _Let’s put that new patience of yours to the test_ and sliding slick fingers inside him, teasing his prostate until he writhed against the sheets. He remembers holding himself in, refusing to demand, waiting until it was allowed. Which it wasn’t, not yet.

He remembers Jimmy drawing him down to kneel astride him, remembers the two of them rocking against each other, faster and harder until it took all his strength to maintain the rhythm and keep his balance. He remembers Jimmy’s back arching, his head thrown back against the pillows. He remembers Jimmy telling him how good he’d been, how well behaved, and giving him permission, at last, to ask for his reward – and he remembers not just asking, but _begging_ , jumbled words, half nonsense.

He remembers only pieces, after that. Leaning heavily against Jimmy, legs wobbling; swollen wrists in the shower; feeble protests when the other man helped him dry off. He doesn’t remember falling asleep here; has no idea, therefore, whether Jimmy was – is – okay with that.

One detail is vivid, though: Alastair remembers Jimmy gasping out his name, somewhere near his second climax of the night. Alastair’s fairly sure this hasn’t happened before. He wonders what it means. If it means anything.

He strokes, again, the friction burn on his wrist. He doesn’t want this to end. He’s discovering so much: about himself, about Jimmy. He wants to tell him this, doesn’t know how: that even if Jimmy’s disciplinary hearing goes the wrong way, even if he loses the captaincy at the end of this Test or this series, he wants this thing to carry on.

The first of those possibilities, arguably, makes the second more likely; it’ll be a huge blow to the team to lose not just Jimmy’s bowling, but his leadership of the attack. The others look up to him, whether he likes it or not; and he helps them, is generous with his experience in his own gruff way, as long as no-one draws attention to what he’s doing, or gets too effusive in their gratitude.

But Jimmy’s only a part of the problem. The main reason Alastair’s captaincy is under threat is that his team’s losing matches they ought to win; losing them in ways they shouldn’t, like being bounced out by Ishant Sharma at Lord’s. The blame for this lies squarely with Alastair’s own leadership, or lack thereof; most urgently, his own form with the bat. How can he criticise his teammates for brainless, careless, fear-struck shots when he himself looks so fragile at the top of the order? He doesn’t exactly cut an inspiring or even a reassuring figure as he flails at deliveries he could leave.

He doesn’t know what’s gone wrong. But if he keeps driving himself hard, surely he’ll get through this. He has to get through this. What choice does he have?

He hears, or feels, movement behind him; becomes aware that Jimmy’s leaning over him, peering down around his shoulder.

“You don’t look much like you’re sleeping,” says Jimmy.

Alastair glances up at him. “Nor do you.”

Jimmy tilts his head. “I’m staying awake to make sure you don’t run off early. What’s your excuse?”

“Thinking.”

Jimmy clicks his tongue. “We’ve _talked_ about this.”

His face is distractingly close. His lips look all too inviting, especially after Alastair’s little mental replay of last night. Alastair reaches up, eases a hand around the back of the other man’s neck. “Then help me stop.”

If he has to stay until six, for the sake of getting Jimmy off his case – and, okay, maybe there’s some sense in it – he wants to spend the time on something more fun than brooding.

Jimmy draws back a bit. “The deal,” he says, “was sleep.” But he’s fighting a smile.

That’s enough of an opening. Alastair smiles back. “Apparently,” he says, “orgasms are great for helping you sleep.”

“That so?” says Jimmy, eyebrows arching.

Alastair yawns, settles himself flat on his back, and stretches, touching his palms to the headboard. “Apparently.”

Jimmy groans. “Put those arms away,” he says. “Shameless man.”

Alastair’s thinking about saying _Make me_ , but Jimmy doesn’t need any further encouragement. He’s already leaning down, dragging his lips across Alastair’s, then moving back in for some slow, short, teasing kisses.

“ _I’m_ shameless?” says Alastair, at length. “Of the two of us here, who was blithely leaving bruises last night?”

He lifts the sheets, ostentatiously, to check. Yes, there: just above his left knee, a pale one the size of a palm (he knows this because it was _made_ by a palm, by a slap that made his eyes water); and a darker, smaller one on the inner slope of his right thigh, much higher up. That one involved teeth.

“Just wanted to, y’know, mark my territory.” Jimmy’s grin, just now, also involves teeth; a lot of them. “You said anywhere that could have been hit by a ball. _Clearly_ you missed a couple of straight ones in the nets yesterday.”

Alastair snorts. “Mark your _territory_? I rest my case. Shameless.”

He lets his hands skid down the smooth, bare skin of Jimmy’s back, to the firm curve of his arse. He spreads his hands over the toned cheeks, urges Jimmy closer to him; feels the hardening shape of Jimmy’s arousal against his thigh.

Jimmy leans down, kisses his way along Alastair’s jaw, to his ear. “Definitely still you who’s most shameless.” He draws back. “You agreed to sleep. You’re not sleeping. You’re… the opposite of asleep.”

“You mean awake?”

“I mean frisky.” Jimmy narrows his eyes. “Explain to me why I should give you what you want, when you’ve already broken our deal.”

“It wasn’t a deal,” says Alastair, sensing victory, unable to contain a smirk, “it was an order. If it was a _deal_ , you’d’ve promised me something in return.”

“I _did_ promise you something,” says Jimmy. “You just weren’t listening properly. My end of the bargain was letting you leave this bed at all.” Alastair catches his breath at this; can’t help it. Desire coils beneath his gut. Jimmy’s turn to smirk. “Anyway, you’re supposed to be _obeying_ orders, remember?”

Alastair begins to wonder if he’s misjudged this. He decides to try for nice, fun, _playful_ disobedience. Imitation, echo, without mockery: “I’m also a brat, remember?”

“You really are.” Jimmy doesn’t look as amused as Alastair was hoping. “So, I’m going to ask again. Why should I give you what you want, if you haven’t earned it? Why shouldn’t I…” Jimmy looks thoughtful, “…lock you in the bathroom on your own until six?”

“Because the bathroom only locks from the inside?”

“Careful, brat. Thin ice, here. Fine. I could tie you to that pipe under the sink. Cold tiles, bare arse; imagine that’d cool you down pretty quickly. Imagine it wouldn’t be long before you were pleading to be allowed to come back to the nice warm bed.”

Alastair turns this idea over in his mind. His groin’s throbbing, now, enough to make him squirm a little. “Well,” he says. “Actually. That sounds… Sort of a turn on. Actually. Maybe not the cold, but the… tying up.” He flushes.

Jimmy laughs, buries his face in Alastair’s chest. “Look, I’m not a morning person, okay? Apparently I’m rubbish at discipline, this early.” He recovers himself, lifts his head. “You’d like it much less if I refused to do anything about your hard-on once you were back in bed, right?”

Alastair pictures himself trying to focus on batting in the nets under those circumstances. It doesn’t really bear thinking about. “True,” he says. “That would be… yeah. Much less good.” To put it mildly.

“So.” Jimmy sits up. “What’s it worth for me?”

“How about I earn it retrospectively? Like, you can shag me every night of the Test.”

“I was planning to do that anyway. Try again.”

“Okay.” Alastair thinks carefully. At last the solution comes to him, and he says, “I’ll stay here until six-thirty, how about that?”

Jimmy looks floored, for a moment, and Alastair feels a pang of guilt for using Jimmy’s worry – that’s what he called it, last night, didn’t he? – against him. _Shameless, indeed_ , he thinks.

Jimmy’s face is turned away, now; he’s looking down at the mattress. “Seven. And you have a proper go at sleeping, when we’re done.”

Alastair’s heart sinks, thoughts of the match crowding in on him again. “I’m not... I can’t.” Guilt or no guilt, this is too far. He pushes a hand into his hair with a sigh. “I can’t sleep that late. Not this morning. I’ll… No. Think maybe I should go.” He draws back the sheets, shuffles to the edge of the bed.

“Hold on,” says Jimmy, reaching out to stop him. “Half six is better than nothing.”

Alastair wavers, then nods, accepting the compromise; lies back down. Jimmy, still leaning over him, looks down at him for a long moment; so long that Alastair frowns at him, uncertain.

Jimmy’s gaze slides away. “Just don’t overdo it, yeah,” he mutters.

“I won’t,” says Alastair, “don’t—”

The rest of his reassurance is smothered under a fierce kiss, one that leaves no space for words, or breath. Alastair accepts the sudden force and returns it, his arousal sparking.

“Arms,” says Jimmy, at a certain point. He’s fully on top of Alastair now, bearing down on him. “Back where they were when you started this.”

Alastair does as he’s told, reaching above his head until he touches the headboard; a moment later he feels Jimmy’s hands on his own, pushing them down against the fitted sheet.

“There’s a gap,” says Jimmy. “Between the headboard and the mattress. I want you to hook your fingers through there, if it’s not too tight.”

Alastair tries this; it’s a snug fit, but there’s no danger, he judges, of cutting off circulation. The mattress is firm but yielding, the edge of the headboard cushioned: it offers just enough snag to make him feel a little trapped, pleasantly trapped, but no sharp edges. “It’s good,” he says.

Jimmy smiles what Alastair’s starting to think of as his in-charge smile: hard, sharp, powerful. “Right. You stay like that until I’m done with you. Understood?” Alastair nods, and Jimmy drops out of the commanding tone. “Obviously, unless you start getting numb fingers or whatever. We might accidentally move the mattress or something, so… be careful. And I will too.”

“Promise.” Alastair wets his lips, wondering what Jimmy has planned.

And he probably should have seen this coming (so to speak): what Jimmy has planned, of course, is frustration. He straddles Alastair, upright on his knees, well above Alastair’s groin, not touching even a square inch of Alastair’s skin. Then starts to stroke his own cock, slowly and firmly, palm underneath it, fingers closed around it, squeezing up and down the length of his shaft. And all the while, he gazes down at Alastair. That smile still curves his lips; it gets wider when he glances at Alastair’s groin, when Alastair’s cock twitches, helplessly, in response.

Alastair bites his lip, drawing in a breath through his nose. He curls his fingers tighter around the base of the headboard, trying to translate the urge to move the rest of body into the strength of his grip. “Are you—”

“Quiet,” says Jimmy. “No talking unless I ask you a question. But feel free to pull against the headboard some more. Your arms look even better when they’re straining.”

 _So do yours_ , Alastair thinks, watching the muscle in Jimmy’s arm slide and shift and flex as he works. With his slim frame, it’s easy to underestimate this man – even with those shoulders – until you see him in the gym or, well, naked and equally hard at work in another way.

Or not all that hard at work, actually. Jimmy’s taking his time, clearly enjoying this, and showing no signs of putting Alastair out of his neglected misery any time soon.

Patience, Alastair reminds himself, and hopes this whole episode isn’t going to prove to be his comeuppance, for pushing the line – okay, mocking this line – this morning. To be left high and dry at this stage would be cruel, but possibly deserved.

“Look at you,” says the other man suddenly, as if he’s read Alastair’s mind. “Finally behaving yourself. Nice and still, mouth shut. Trying so hard to please me. So desperate for me to touch you, you’ll do anything I tell you. Let’s hope it’s not too late.”

Alastair’s gaze is drawn, inexorably, back down to Jimmy’s cock: to the skin stretched, bulging, tugged and pulled, growing darker red as Jimmy starts to thrust harder into his fist. A drop of fluid has gathered at the tip; Alastair wants, so badly, to lick it off. The drop swells, catching the sunlight, and falls, landing soundlessly on Alastair’s abdomen, where his muscles are taut with the strain of not moving. The drip slides away slowly, down his side, tickling his skin as it goes.

His self-restraint collapses – part of it, anyway; he still remembers not to move – and he gives a high-pitched gasp. He doesn’t care; if anything, it only turns him on more to hear himself so close to undone.

He hears Jimmy grunt, then groan, and then there’s come splattering on Alastair’s belly, dripping from Jimmy’s fingers in translucent, viscous strings. The other man is panting, lightly; he leans forward, bracing one arm against the mattress by Alastair’s chest, holding himself just above any contact with Alastair’s skin, still – even with his eyes closed. Then he sinks, just the tiniest bit, and Alastair catches his breath as he feels the wet tip of Jimmy’s cock trail across his skin.

Jimmy opens his eyes, at this; looks at him with that smile, again. “Learned your lesson, yet?”

“Yes,” says Alastair, fervently. “Very, _very_ thoroughly.”

“Fingers okay under there?”

Alastair straightens them out, then taps them against the back of the headboard. “Full working order,” he says.

Jimmy sits up, resting his arse on Alastair’s thighs – apparently casually, but Alastair has to smile at how that casualness just happens, once again, to keep him out of range of Alastair’s groin – and reaches for the tissues.

“Let me see?” he says, as he wipes his hand clean.

Alastair extracts his own hands, lifts them up for Jimmy’s inspection. Jimmy takes hold of them, carefully, turning them over and back again, stroking his thumbs gently over the joints and the bumps.

Which is all very well, but it’d be nicer under other circumstances. Just now, though…

“Please,” says Alastair. “Don’t leave me like this.”

Jimmy looks up from Alastair’s hands; doesn’t stop stroking. “You needed sleep, this morning.”

“Plenty of time for sleep after the Test,” Alastair says, then wishes he hadn’t. Well; go for broke. “Right now, I want as much of you as I can get.”

Jimmy glances to his left; at the clock, Alastair realises. “If I take the edge off,” he says, “will you at least try to sleep, afterwards?”

This time, Alastair ignores the clock; doesn’t calculate times, or think about what else he could or should be doing. “Yes,” he says, and means it.

It’s a while before Jimmy answers this; he seems absorbed in pulling more tissues from the box, in wiping Alastair’s belly and chest. “Okay,” he says, when he’s done. “Since you were good while I was sorting myself out. If not before. Why don’t you put your hands back where they were?”

Relaxing, now, Alastair treats Jimmy to a full-body stretch before he settles back into position; gets a warmer smile for it.

Jimmy lobs the balled-up tissues at the bin, gives a little cheer when they land inside, then moves back, pushing Alastair’s legs apart – and up, so his knees are raised a foot or so off the mattress – and kneeling between his feet. Then he dips his head and runs his tongue down the inside of Alastair’s left thigh, kissing his way tantalisingly close to swollen cock and aching balls, before moving over to the right. On this side, he lingers over the bruise, kissing it firmly, making Alastair whimper, a little, at the mingled sensations: moisture, pressure, pain, pleasure.

“There’s so much,” Jimmy says, “I want to do. Five nights… Not enough.”

 _It’s not_ , Alastair wants to say, _and it doesn’t have to be_ , but as he opens his mouth to speak he feels something warm and damp against one of his balls – Jimmy’s tongue and then his mouth, taking it inside, sucking on it – and his words burn up in a gasp.

Jimmy mutters something else, after, but Alastair doesn’t hear it properly. He’s more aware of the way his legs are being pushed further apart, and of the other man shifting; of the tongue flicking the tip of his cock and a hand settling in tight around the base of it. Then he’s disappearing into sensations, so many at once – massaging fingers setting up a rhythm, tongue curling and swirling and pressing, hollowed cheeks pulling his cock up and up and up into wet heat – and he tries to keep track of it all, to learn things he can use, but it’s too much. He grits his teeth, hangs onto the headboard, hopes no-one’s awake to hear him, and loses himself.

Afterwards, he can’t stop smiling. Opening his eyes seems like a bit too much work, even more so moving his limbs, but a smile he can handle. He feels the mattress dip beside him, feels his arms being drawn down from above his head and laid carefully either side of him.

“I liked that,” he declares, after a while.

“I could tell.”

“Worth the wait.”

“Sorry. That I haven’t done it before. I meant to.”

And this wasn’t what Alastair was getting at, at all – he was talking about the wait this morning, not the wait in total – but he’s too drowsy and content to correct him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

“It’s been a while since I last… But I really did mean to reciprocate. Then we got interrupted by room service that time in London, and at Swanny’s, well… you distracted me.”

Alastair’s surprised by Jimmy’s earnestness over this. He doesn’t ask, although he half-wants to, how long ago Jimmy last did this. Who with. Who’s done it for him, over the years. He doesn’t really want the answer. No point.

“Good job you didn’t,” he says instead. “Would’ve been too intimidated to do it again, afterwards.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about.” Jimmy’s voice is weary. “But any time you want more practice. Any time at all. Except now, because sleep.”

“I should clean up, first.”

“Here.” The mattress dips again, and Alastair opens his eyes to see Jimmy reaching across him and then dumping a handful of tissues on his face. “Don’t you dare go and shower yet. You’ll be all awake. More awake.”

Alastair blows, lightly, at the tissues. When that doesn’t move them, he reaches up with a wobbly arm, and grabs them. Maybe Jimmy has a point. The bathroom does seem quite far away. Although when he’s done he starts to get up, even so, to get rid of the used tissues.

Jimmy, with surprisingly fast reflexes for a guy who’s appeared half-asleep for the past few minutes, grabs Alastair with an arm around his waist before he can even set foot on the carpet. “Do I have to hold you down?”

Alastair gives him a quick quirk of the eyebrows. “Can if you like.”

“Stay here.”

“But the tissues – I won’t be a min—”

Jimmy makes an exasperated noise, and doesn’t let go. “Lie _down_. World won’t end if there’s a tissue not in the bin.”

Alastair lets the rubbish drop, with reluctance, and lies down. Jimmy’s arm adjusts, curling around him, and the weight of it feels so good, so welcome and comforting, that Alastair has to take a deep breath to control an abrupt, irrational surge of warmth in his chest.

Jimmy pulls Alastair into him, his back against the other man’s chest. “Now go to sleep,” he mutters, into his shoulder.

Alastair feels something poking him in the backside, and snorts. “Think you’re more awake than you’re admitting.” He wriggles against the other man.

“Stop that. Perfectly natural reaction to watching you writhe around, before. It’ll calm down in a minute.”

“Doesn’t have to.”

“Yes it does. _Sleep_. I’m not falling victim to your wiles a second time.”

“Really. My wiles.”

“Yeah. You got me before, with your arms and your thighs and… stuff. Your arse. Won’t happen again.”

“Wait.” Alastair can’t let this go. He rolls partway over, so he can see Jimmy’s face. “I was lying on my back! You couldn’t even _see_ my arse.”

Jimmy’s expression is a picture of injured innocence. “But I knew it was _there_.”

Alastair laughs, and after a moment the other man joins in. Alastair stretches to give Jimmy a quick kiss. “Idiot,” he says, then rolls onto his side again, snuggling back into position against Jimmy.

Jimmy sighs. “Are you always this giddy in the mornings?”

“Misery guts.”

“Pain in the arse.”

“Ah, but apparently it’s a _good_ arse.” Alastair rests his arm over the top of Jimmy’s.

“I was talking about mine.”

“Well, that’s a good arse, too.”

“Ridiculous man.” Jimmy presses a long kiss to the back of Alastair’s neck. “Go to sleep.”

Alastair doesn’t think he will. But when he next opens his eyes, the clock by the bed reads 06:40.

\--

In the event, Alastair does skip the nets, and just go for a run. His mind is about as clear as it could be, on balance, he reckons.

When he gets out of the shower, back in his own room again, he’s surprised to see he has five text messages on his mobile. One’s from his wife, wishing him luck. Three are from Swanny, which makes Alastair smile; he’s halfway across the world, and still keeping up with them. The first of these reads:

_I have a good feeling about today. Smash it!_

The second:

_apparently you can get in your bowlers’ good books by choosing to bat first #justsaying_

The third, sent about half a minute after the second:

_oh god im turning into michael vaughan. sorry too Much rum. quite late here you know. stayed up just for you_

And then, finally, there’s one from Jimmy:

_You can do it_

Just four words, but oh. Oh dear. That fluttering in Alastair’s chest is back, and it’s got a friend in his stomach.

 _Oh, Swanny_ , he thinks. _Why do you have to be in the Caribbean when I really, really need you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image of Alastair late (and alone) in the nets before this match, so important for this third part of the fic, was in large part inspired by [this piece](http://www.espncricinfo.com/england-v-india-2014/content/story/763785.html).
> 
> And [here is Cook's press conference](http://www.espncricinfo.com/england-v-india-2014/content/story/764327.html) from the day before the Test (26th July), in which he talks about pressure, his batting form, and team dynamics.


	6. The Third Test, in Six Deliveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, predictably, the last chapter of 'Take a Deep Breath' turned into a behemoth, and for everyone's sake I'm splitting it in two. But it is at least drafted, now, so to make up for having missed an update last week, I'll be posting the second and final chapter either tomorrow or Sunday.
> 
> Thanks, as ever, for all the kudos and comments. They really do keep a fic writer going when she hits 8000 words on a single chapter and wonders wtf she's doing with her life ;)
> 
> Thanks, also, to [alastair-is-perfect](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/), whose exhaustive dedication to finding every photo of Alastair Cook that the internet has to offer gave me the image that inspired part of this chapter (see the notes at the end).

**Day one, morning session; first innings**  
**11.1: Pankaj Singh to Cook, 1 run. Around the wicket, length just outside off. Cook presses at it, thick edge to third slip. Jadeja goes to his left at knee height, but drops it.**

Whatever Alastair thought, feared, or hoped the day might bring when he won the toss this morning and announced they’d bat first, the one thing he certainly never saw coming was the crowd on their feet, applauding him off the field at lunch.

And yet, they are.

On the one hand, it’s chastening – potentially humiliating, even – for a man with twenty-five Test centuries to his name to receive a _standing ovation_ just for making it through a single session without getting out. On the other hand, he’s moved; more than words, and so on. So moved he doesn’t know where to look.

Under certain circumstances, support can be harder to bear than criticism.

But the applause is happening, and the relief and delight behind it is apparently catching; as he and Gaz reach the dressing room, the guys crowd round, all smiles; there are pats on the back. Alastair thinks, again, about the strain his poor form has been putting on everyone. _They still support me_ , he said, in the press conference yesterday; _unless they’re lying to my face._ A joke, yes, but one with a semitone of doubt buried in it.

He knows it’s a limited recovery, at best; that even if he is still in, his batting’s been far from fluent. He’s had several slices of luck, chief among them the moment when, on fifteen, he edged a ball to the slips and watched it go down. The fact that the man who dropped him was Ravindra Jadeja – the other half of the spat that may, in five days’ time, see the ICC ban Jimmy from playing for the rest of the series – carries more irony than Alastair can really handle just now.

On that thought – of course – he looks for Jimmy, or perhaps admits to himself that he’s been looking for Jimmy since he walked in. He spies the other man at the far side of the room. He’s in the dark blue and white of the training kit, leaning back against the wall, head tilted to one side, watching him with a faint but unmistakable smile.

Alastair doesn’t go over to him immediately. He’s still taken aback by his reaction to Jimmy’s innocuous text this morning: _You can do it_ , the screen read, and for a long moment Alastair couldn’t breathe. Irrational, but unmistakable: this thing between them is more to him, now, than just sex. (Not that there’s anything _just_ about the sex.) So he needs to be sure he’s in control of himself, that he won’t give anything away when he speaks to Jimmy. He feels, instinctively, that Jimmy won’t want to know; that knowing would push him away.

Once Alastair’s ready, or the sense of being watched has grown too strong for him to resist, he lets himself be carried along by the general drift of the group: towards lunch, and – _entirely_ coincidentally – towards where Jimmy waits. As Alastair approaches, the smile broadens across the other man’s sculpted features, coaxing out some of the laughter lines around his eyes.

“Told you,” is all Jimmy says. The worst thing he could have chosen, under the circumstances. His voice is low and genial, but the words are conspiratorial, intimate, a gesture back to something shared and private.

Alastair feels himself flush. How can anyone not see that they have a secret? How can Jimmy not see that this is affecting him more than it should?

A sudden impact on his back makes him jump; he whirls round, sees Joe’s grinning face up close behind him, and hands dancing up to grip his shoulders. “Ey, Cooky!” he says. “How’s the pitch out there?”

“Great for batting,” says Alastair, “you’ll love it.”

The moment – and his embarrassment – diffused, Alastair turns back to Jimmy. But the other man’s already heading off down the corridor, deep in conversation with Woakesy.

And Alastair finds himself breathing a sigh of relief.

\--

 **Day one, evening session; first innings**  
**75.6: Jadeja to Cook, OUT. Slides down the leg side, Cook tries to whip it away; gets a faint tickle and it’s a smart catch from Dhoni. Cook falls five short of a century.**

Jimmy’s gutted when Ali loses his wicket: to fall, so agonisingly close, after so long? It feels like an injustice. Even after his own painful lesson, up in Headingley, on how arbitrary fate can be in sport, somehow Jimmy was beginning to take it for granted Ali would reach three figures. It seemed inevitable; the team were gathered on the balcony, ready to celebrate the climax of what was surely the triumphant story of their captain resurgent in his darkest hour.

Not to be. Instead, somehow, that man Jadeja intervenes again. (Jimmy scowls, at that.)

Jimmy watches from the balcony as Ali trudges across the field, trying to guess what he’s feeling. (In Ali’s position, as both captain and batsman under pressure, do you take the ninety-five, and feel grateful, hoping they’re a sign you’ve turned a corner? Or do you dwell on those missing five runs, and the rest you might have made if you stayed in?) The distant figure rallies long enough to acknowledge a crowd that is, once again, on its feet. Jimmy thinks of the hours in the nets, of the tightness of Ali’s jaw when he went out there, this morning; and of how broken Ali sounded, earlier, when he explained why he wanted to go and train at sunrise.

(Above all, Jimmy’s thinking – can’t stop himself – of what he can do to make it better. To distract, and comfort. Swanny was right, again; he can’t have one without the other.)

Ali’s batted for almost five hours, today; this evening, Jimmy decides, can be a time for kicking back and relaxing, for letting sleep take them both while they’re sated and smiling and entangled. Maybe he can stay the night, this once; under the circumstances. He won’t admit it, but somewhere amid all the stress, he enjoyed this morning: enjoyed not just making Ali behave, but also taking care of him.

When the evening comes, he’s prepared for Ali to be subdued, or at the very least to have mixed emotions about the day. But he’s taken aback when Ali meets his attempted post-coital smooch with a close-mouthed smile, dodges his embrace with a chuckle, and bids him a brisk goodnight on his way for the shower.

“Sleep well,” he says, “Need some top-drawer bowling from you tomorrow.”

 _Oh_ , thinks Jimmy. _Dismissed_.

\--

 **Day two, evening session; first innings**  
**163.4: Jadeja to Buttler, OUT. Flat delivery just outside off, Buttler stepped back to try and pull, but he gets an inside edge onto the off stump so the fun comes to an end. A superb innings from Buttler, such clean striking. And with that England declare; Cook gave his debutant the chance for a fairytale ton but it didn’t quite happen.**

Runs take some of the pressure off, of course they do. Off not just Alastair, but the whole team.

Applauding from the balcony as Gaz and Belly rack up huge scores – _make it a daddy hundred_ , as Gooch always used to say, _make it count_ – Alastair feels a twinge of regret at what might have been, yesterday, but mostly he’s relieved to see his teammates playing with freedom on the platform he’s built for them.

Watching Jos bat, though, is an education, or a dream: here’s what truly unfettered hitting looks like. It’s cricket from another world, one with different laws of physics, or of narrative, in which a quiet, smiling, unassuming lad from Somerset can whip the ball around the park with seemingly effortless grace and power. At one point he smacks two huge sixes in succession and Joe, sitting beside Alastair, bounces on his chair with such glee that Alastair’s slightly concerned he’s going to topple right off the balcony.

When the bails go flying, in the next over – when Jos, who’s been scoring at just over a run a ball, falls fifteen short of a century on debut – the crowd on the balcony deflates with a collective sigh. It was a performance that deserved a more resounding climax.

Still, there’s a new job to focus on, and a massive total to bowl at, in what’s left of the evening. Even Jimmy’s grinning, joking around with Broady as they gather inside to change back into their whites.

First blood goes to Jimmy, in the seventh over. Alastair takes the catch at slip, and his heart soars.

Until later that night, at least, when he’s lying on his back in a pleasant daze, thigh muscles twitching and Jimmy’s sweat drying on his skin, and Jimmy pauses with his trousers in one hand and a foot on the carpet beside the bed, and says, “Do you want me to stay, tonight?”

And Alastair thinks, _I want you to stay every night_ , and it’s for that reason that he shrugs and says, “Don’t worry about it. I know you like your own space.”

His smile feels forced; surely it must look it. If Jimmy notices, though, he doesn’t say anything. He’s probably relieved.

Afterwards, Alastair listens to the door close, and tells himself that this is necessary, and logical. Better this than showing his hand to Jimmy; better to step back now, to lessen the wrench at the end of the Test, if things go wrong in the ways he quietly fears but won’t admit. And he’s protecting Jimmy, too, who doesn’t need this sort of complication, with the hearing looming.

Alastair is, at last, trying to follow Swanny’s advice: _don’t go all in_. He hopes it isn’t too late.

\--

 **Day three, evening session; second innings**  
**88.1: Anderson to Jadeja, OUT. This was full and quick, Jadeja planted his front leg and had to bring his bat around it to make contact because of the seam swinging in at him. Rapped on the pads rather low. Simple call for the umpire.**

On the third night – _two to go_ , Alastair’s mind whispers, traitorous – they’re safely back to the old pattern: Jimmy first out of bed, cleaned up and dressed and out of the door less than five minutes after they’re done.

Just before he goes, Jimmy says, out of the blue, as he tugs his skinny jeans back up over his thighs, “I can’t do this tomorrow night.” He pauses a moment, fingers and gaze occupied with the ends of his belt. “Dani’s coming down. For my birthday.”

Alastair watches the other man wet his lips, and not look up. He says, “Oh. Right. Okay.” By the third word, he’s almost got the cheerful tone he was aiming for.

Jimmy does, now, look up. “It was a spontaneous thing,” he says, as if any explanation or excuse could be needed for spending your birthday with your wife.

“Of course,” Alastair says, and this time his tone’s spot on. “Have a fantastic time.”

He means it. He is, after all, sharing Jimmy with someone who has a lot more claim to him, in every way that matters. He’s always known this sort of thing would happen eventually. If it hurts, a bit, well: that’s his own silly fault, and not something Jimmy needs to know.

 _One night left, then_ , his mind supplies. Yes, also that.

\--

 **Day four, afternoon session; third innings**  
**40.4: Jadeja to Root, OUT. Jadeja bowls over the wicket, Root tries to sweep, misses, and is bowled. That brings the England declaration, with an early tea being taken.**

On the fourth day, Joe’s bowled by Jadeja – that man again – just before tea. Alastair, still at the crease – not a situation many would’ve predicted, a handful of days ago – signals for his team’s second declaration of the match, with a lead of almost four hundred and fifty. It’s frustrating, to call a halt when he’s once again within touching distance of that long-awaited twenty-sixth century, but the personal milestone can wait: a win for the team is more important.

There’s a small delegation waiting for him and Joe at the top of the stairs as they leave the field; Jimmy’s hovering at the back of it, like he doesn’t quite belong, applauding with his head down. There’s that fluttering Alastair’s chest again, at the sight of him; flush with the chance of victory, for the first time in days he lets himself feel it.

“Birthday present,” he says with a grin, as he jogs past Jimmy. “Four sessions to bowl them out.”

“Is that all?” Jimmy turns, following Alastair’s movement until he’s facing away from the others. His eyebrows go up. “Was hoping for something else.”

Alastair slows, stops; he does have another present for Jimmy, as it happens, but there’s not going to be time today, and he’s still in two minds about whether he wants to hand it over at all. But that’s not what Jimmy means, of course.

 _Your wife’s here_ , he wants to say, and doesn’t. Instead he drops his voice, giving the other man a sideways look from under the brim of his helmet. “ _Now_ who’s greedy?”

Jimmy steps up close to him. Alastair, recognising the look in his eye, flashes a quick glance down the far end of the gantry; Joe’s keeping Paul and Mo and the rest safely occupied.

“Think I’m owed. I finished off a five-fer this morning.” Jimmy looks Alastair up and down, smiling his in-charge smile; Alastair’s breath hitches in his throat. “We finish things early, tomorrow, me and my bowling attack…? Your extra time’s mine.”

“ _Your_ bowling attack, is it, now?” Alastair enjoys his own arch tone. This sort of exchange is safer ground: the rush of arousal has pushed out the fluttering, very effectively. “Well. You’d better stop yakking and get ready to bowl, then.”

He inclines his head at Jimmy’s amused surprise, then turns on his heel. Excitement swirls in his belly as he strides away. He imagines Jimmy’s gaze lingering on his arse all the way to the dressing room, and he’s suddenly warmer inside his whites than he was the whole time he was out in the middle, with the sun beating down on him.

But all the while, at the back of his mind, there’s a steady drumbeat of awareness, that urgency returned in force: the hearing, the hearing, the _bloody_ hearing. One day left. He wants to swing his bat at the wall in frustration: why _now_ , when he’s only just finding out how good this feels?

By close of play, they have India four down. He should be buoyant, and is, until he sees the umpire stepping in between Jimmy and Ajinkya Rahane. Words, it’s clear, have been exchanged.

It takes Alastair a considerable effort of will to keep his face still for the cameras; the last thing they need is any hint that he isn’t one-hundred percent behind Jimmy, going into this trial. But inside, he’s boiling.

\--

 **Day five, morning session; fourth innings**  
**66.4: Ali to Pankaj Singh, OUT, six-for! Another Indian batsman plays inside the line of a Moeen offspinner, and the ball crashes into off stump.**

In the event, largely thanks to Mo, they finish off India before lunch on the fifth day.

It all happens so fast that you might call it an anti-climax, if you hadn’t just gone ten Tests without a win; if you couldn’t see the guys scrambling for souvenir stumps, cracking open beer bottles, smiling from ear to ear.

For his seven wickets, Jimmy gets Man of the Match, which is nice but he would’ve preferred to see it go to Gaz or Belly or Mo, so he could keep a low profile. He’s sick of questions about the ICC hearing. He’s sick of the way people look at him when they’re trying _not_ to ask questions about it.

He’s sick – Jimmy reflects, as he hovers near the dressing-room’s open door later that afternoon, beer dangling loose and undrunk from his hand – of being in limbo. He just wants the whole thing over with. Even if that means he’s banned for the rest of the summer. Okay, so he’ll play no more part in this Test series, but a first-innings five-fer on a fairly flat pitch isn’t a bad way to bow out.

On that thought, his traitorous bastard eyes flicker in the direction of Ali, who’s down at the far end of the room with Mo and Chris. Ali’s laughing, head thrown back, unruly hair starting to escape his cap (which is so clean, as always, compared to the sweat-soaked specimens sported by the rest of them); one hand’s slapping at his thigh, just above where his white trousers are streaked with red from shining the ball.

Thoughts occur to Jimmy: of skin reddened like that under his own hands; of the challenge, or the promise, he made yesterday ( _your extra time’s mine_ ). He looks away, quickly. Lets himself wonder (not for the first time) if he could take a bit more limbo, after all, if it meant more time with that man.

Things have been strained, this week, as they’ve got closer to the end of the Test and the date of the hearing; there’s been a growing urgency to their evening encounters. Even as the pressure on the field has eased, off the field a steady drip-drip of tension has been slowly filling the spaces around and between them. There’s been no shouting match, no harsh words, no slammed doors. What there has been, instead, is quiet.

They’ve been talking less, laughing less, have seemed almost to breathe less; they’ve been spending less time on teasing and tasting and exploring. Instead they’ve rushed, as if they’ve been racing the clock each night: they’ve snatched at kisses, fallen headlong into fucking, strained after climaxes they would normally draw out. Ali’s even been kicking him out at the end of the night.

(There was a time Jimmy would’ve been more than happy with that. Now he’s not so sure. He’s made such a mess of things, in so many ways.)

He shakes his head when Broady catches his eye from across the room, asking a question with a head-tilt ( _Want some company?_ ); steps aside to let a grinning Sam back into the room with a fresh supply of beer; watches Joe and Jos pose for a photo with matching dimple-framed grins and arms round each other like they belong there.

If Swanny were here, he’d be doing his utmost to cheer Jimmy up. Or at the very least playing better music. But Swanny’s not here; he hasn’t been here for more than six months. (Not that this is Swanny’s fault, but there’s a part of Jimmy that – especially on a night like tonight – still slightly resents him for it, anyway.) 

There’s more activity in the doorway behind him. It’s a delegation of catering staff – Jimmy recognises the girl with the blue hair and the guy with the turban – bearing food and (more) drink.

Broady cheers. “To the victors go the spoils,” he declares, beaming.

As everyone crowds round to help themselves to food, Jimmy spots his chance, and slips out while no-one’s looking his way. There’s no point standing there glooming up the place, after all; best off leaving them to enjoy a well-deserved party in peace.

Outside, the stands are empty, except for a handful of opportunistic seagulls and the last few stewards racing them to the last few bits of rubbish. In the middle, the ground staff are wrangling hosepipes; water arcs in the air, falls sparkling onto the worn earth of the wicket, which can rest and recuperate, now, its job done.

Jimmy picks one of the white plastic seats at random and flops down, lifting his feet onto the back of the chair in front of him and taking a swig of beer. He loses track of time, gazing out at nothing in particular and re-running the encounter with Jadeja in his head for the thousandth time; when he’s roused by a clink behind him, his beer’s gone warm, from the sun and his hand wrapped around it. He gives up on drinking it, puts the half-empty bottle down on the concrete beneath him, turns his head to look.

Ali’s standing on the steps behind him, holding up two bottles in one hand. Condensation drips from the green glass.

“Thought you might be ready for a refill,” he says.

Jimmy thinks about saying no; can’t bring himself to do it.

He checks the coast’s clear beyond Ali, then nods, and turns back to the pitch. There’s a silence, and he can feel Ali watching him. He keeps his gaze on the ground staff rather than see whatever flavour of pity is in the other man’s face. He should have brought his sunglasses out with him, to hide behind.

 _Don’t_ , he warns Ali, in his mind; _don’t ask how I’m feeling_.

Ali, it turns out, knows him better than that. He doesn’t say a word, just weaves his way along the row of seats, leaving a space free between the two of them when he sits. Hands over a bottle. Jimmy savours, for a moment, the shock of the cold against his palm and the underside of his fingers, then tilts his head back and drinks most of it in one go.

The taste of the beer reminds him of going out with Swanny, at the end of the previous Test. “Last drink for a condemned man?” he says, as he lowers the bottle.

Ali’s arm moves, and Jimmy feels a light smack on the back of his head. “Hey,” he says, mildly.

“That’s not funny.”

“Not my joke – Swanny’s.”

“I don’t care if it’s Sachin Tendulkar’s joke. Not funny.” Ali picks at the label on his bottle. “The hearing hasn’t happened yet. Don’t talk like it’s a foregone conclusion.”

Sometimes Jimmy’s amazed that a grown man could still be so naïve. “Well, nice of you to say so. But you’re right, I’m _sure_ they’ll let me off.”

“Don’t patronise me.” Ali’s tone is tight, but he’s going on before Jimmy can protest. “I may not be as clever as you and Swanny, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that if you walk in there tomorrow with that attitude, it’s going to do you no favours at all.”

“What attitude?”

“You know what.”

Jimmy sits up in his chair. “What attitude _should_ I go in with? Do you want me to lie, is that it?”

“No!” Ali sighs. “God, no. Don’t let them— Look, the team… it’ll be hard, but we’ll cope without you, if we have to, okay? Don’t let this job turn you into a liar.” He leans forward, elbows on his thighs; rubs the palm of his free hand over his forehead. “It’s not worth it, trust me.”

 _We’ll cope without you. The team._ Jimmy comes close to asking _What about you?_ , which is a mark of how unsettled he is, this evening. For the briefest of instants, he wants to hear Ali talk about this as a person, not just a captain: _will it matter to_ you _if I’m not here?_

( _Because it will to me_. He crushes that thought.)

Ali’s speaking again. “Tell them the truth. Like you told me the other week. Tell them you’re sorry, whatever. But don’t do the judge’s job for him. Let him decide who’s at fault.”

(And there’s the rub, or part of it, because Jimmy didn’t tell Ali the truth. He left out Jadeja’s comments about Ali. He’ll do the same tomorrow. If he doesn’t, word’ll get out, and the last thing the other man needs is to blame himself for Jimmy getting banned.)

“I’m sorry,” he says, instead, and the words feel empty as soon as they leave his mouth. “For leaving you a bowler down.”

Ali takes a drink. “Like I said, it’s not over yet. And even if— Well. It’s not like I’ve got room to judge. We’ve benefitted plenty from your aggression over the years.” He shrugs. “It’s who you are.”

 _It’s how I play, not who I am_ , Jimmy thinks. (And he remembers that they talked about this, the first time they ever properly talked, eight years ago: side-by-side on a flight halfway round the world.) The protest’s reflexive, which is why it stays in his head. Lately he’s begun to suspect that the distinction is a meaningless one; something to hide behind.

He glances sideways at the other man: Ali’s head is down, he’s back to picking at the label on his bottle. He’s squinting against the sunshine, eyelashes lowered towards his cheekbones; his mouth, outlined with dark stubble, is set in a frown.

Jimmy looks back at the eye-watering green of the outfield, and assesses. He’s got a sunny afternoon off, he’s got a beer in his hand, and he’s sitting beside the man who has, over the past month, somehow turned from a teammate he’s known for eight years into the walking, talking, enthusiastically moaning embodiment of his most unlikely fantasies. They’ve won a match, today; they’ve levelled a series. They should be basking in that sunshine, they should be getting drunk; they should be off somewhere fucking like rabbits, while they’ve still got time. Instead, because Jimmy can’t control his temper, they’re hunched up on plastic chairs in awkward silence, moping.

Well; he’s an idiot, but at least one of them can have some fun.

“You should go back to the party,” he says. “You deserve to celebrate.”

“I…” Jimmy hears Ali take a breath. “I’d rather spend the evening with you.”

Jimmy closes his eyes. He aches, in ways he never predicted; in ways he wishes he didn’t.

He hears the other man move, feels a hand – cool from holding the beer bottle – settle on his shoulder.

“Come on,” Ali says, in a murmur. “Let’s get out of here.”

Jimmy shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. He should send Ali back inside, and take his maudlin mood somewhere far away before it gets him in trouble. But today. Today, he can’t; today, he has no defences.

(All the more reason to go to bed alone, of course, but that’s not how vulnerability works.)

“All right,” he says. As he gets to his feet, his mind’s already ticking over. He needs to change the tone. He needs distraction. He needs music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next and final chapter of An Indian Summer part 3 will follow on directly from this one, and should be up in the next day or two.
> 
> \--
> 
> Various bits and pieces of the Third Test coverage fed into this fic.
> 
> 1) My section headings are lightly-edited excerpts from the [Cricinfo ball-by-ball of the Test](http://www.espncricinfo.com/england-v-india-2014/engine/match/667715.html).
> 
> 2) Two reports on the Southampton crowd's reception of Cook on day 1: here's [George Dobell](http://www.espncricinfo.com/ci/content/story/764819.html), and [here, more baffled and a touch snarkier](http://www.espncricinfo.com/england-v-india-2014/content/story/764745.html), is his partner in #PoliteEnquiries, Jarrod Kimber.
> 
> 3) [Full Cricinfo coverage of Jimmy vs Jadeja is here](http://www.espncricinfo.com/england-v-india-2014/content/story/763961.html). I imagine everyone reading this knows how the trial worked out, but on the off-chance you're reading this series with no prior knowledge of last year's cricket dramas, then, well, spoiler warning.
> 
> 4) A couple of visual references: [here's Jimmy waiting as Alastair comes off the field on day 4](http://alastair-is-perfect.tumblr.com/post/119668832850) (you thought I'd invented that, didn't you?), and here are [Joe and Jos celebrating together after the match](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/126116077017/lovecricket98-lovecricket98-joe-root-and-jos).
> 
> Finally, the obligatory refs back to other bits of my fic (I've no idea if anyone but me cares about these cross-references, but that doesn't appear to be stopping me from making them): Jimmy and Alastair's main conversation on Jadejagate is in [chapter 2 of 'Not the Whole Story'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3674901/chapters/8229874); and I discussed their first proper meeting at greater length waaaay back in ['In the Nets'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2361767). The 'condemned man' gag is indeed Swanny's, from [chapter 5 of 'Not the Whole Story'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3674901/chapters/8626885).


	7. A Little Charm and a Lot of Style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it _was_ finished, and then somehow I ended up adding another 1500 words of smut. I am incorrigible.
> 
> Also, you know how I said a while back that my working subtitle for 'The Third Test' was 'All the Feels'? I was thinking of this bit. Fair warning.

Alastair’s drying himself off when the bathroom light flickers on, and the smile he shares with the ghost of himself in the steamed-up mirror is partly one of relief. When Jimmy paused, fidgeting, outside Alastair’s open hotel room door – _Need a couple of minutes_ , he said – and Alastair held out his keycard, saying, _I’ll be in the bathroom, let yourself in_ , he wasn’t just sentencing himself to showering in the dark, with no card to operate his lights. He was taking a chance on whether the other man would come back at all.

And maybe trying to tip the balance, a bit.

You can only drag Jimmy so far. The first part of Alastair’s mission had succeeded by then, true; having quickly decided that there was no way he was going to persuade Jimmy to rejoin the party, he opted instead for getting him out of there entirely: away from the ground, from the well-meaning awkwardness of their teammates, from any lingering media hungry for a glimpse of the bad boy ahead of his trial. But he knew that if Jimmy genuinely wanted to be alone, he couldn’t force him to accept his company. It had to be his choice.

Alastair wipes a hand across the mirror, so he can see his face clearly: the flaws and the frown lines, the lazy eye, the patchy stubble he’s been getting up too late to shave properly. Does Jimmy see these things, he wonders, or something else?

He wasn’t sure Jimmy would come back. _But_ , Alastair thinks. _Well_. Sex is a lure, isn’t it? Especially tonight. A way to lose yourself. He can already feel his body getting into the spirit of things; anticipating what’s to come.

Music drifts under the bathroom door. He recognises the band; can’t remember the name, but Jimmy and Swanny used to play them in the dressing room, and the singer’s voice is a little burst of nostalgia. He secures a towel around his waist, pulls open the door.

Jimmy’s standing in front of the TV; he’s still in his whites, although as Alastair gets closer he can smell that Jimmy’s put on fresh cologne, and the hair has definitely been re-styled. He’s got his mp3 player hooked up to the TV, Alastair sees, and he’s playing with the remote, adjusting volume.

From the corner of his eye, Alastair spots Jimmy’s little black bag of mysteries on the cabinet by the bed. He swallows, focuses on the music.

“Is this sensible?” he says. “No-one’s going to believe I’m playing… who’s this?”

Jimmy looks round. He’s smiling, thank goodness. “The Bluetones.”

“Bluetones, right. I might as well hang a sign on the door, saying, _I’ve got Jimmy stashed in here_.”

“Just a couple of tracks. There’s no-one about, anyway, it’s deathly quiet out there.” Jimmy puts down the remote, and picks up a couple of glasses from the counter beside the TV. Alastair notices, for the first time, a bottle of what looks like whisky on the table. Jimmy pours two generous measures, hands one over.

The glass is short and squat, sits snugly in Alastair’s hand when he holds it up to the light. Amber liquid sparkles, and coats the side of the glass as he swirls it, gently. The taste is rich and smoky; it feels warm in his mouth, burns his throat as he swallows.

He becomes aware that Jimmy’s waiting for a reaction. Alastair knows just enough about whisky to be sure of two things: a) this is a good whisky, and b) it’s going to go to his head in no time at all. “Thanks,” he says, smiling, once the burn has died down.

Jimmy shrugs, takes a gulp. “You know. Present from a sponsor. Thought we might as well drink it.” He looks into his glass a moment, then drains it.

Alastair frowns. “Why do you do that?”

Jimmy clears his throat. “Do what?” He’s pouring himself another glass.

“Every time you do anything that’s even vaguely, you know…” – _don’t say romantic_ , Alastair tells himself, _don’t say romantic_ — “generous, you undermine it as fast as you can.”

Jimmy shrugs again. “Sponsor’s generous, not me.” He takes another drink, then grabs the remote and turns the volume up a couple of notches, then advances on Alastair, holding his glass out of the way as he slides an arm about Alastair’s waist, just above the edge of his towel. “But if you want to show your appreciation, don’t let me stop you.”

Jimmy tastes of whisky – obviously – and his shoulders feel tense under the palm Alastair pushes up his back. He’s also not concentrating as hard as he might be on kissing; when a new track starts, his mouth goes still, and he starts humming against Alastair’s lips. Alastair pulls back a bit, to give him a look.

Jimmy just grins. “It’s a song about having a lock-in and drinking too much. Pretty appropriate.” He bobs his head to the bouncy rhythm, mouthing along to the words. Then he chuckles. “Ha, especially this next bit. _So you imbibe all you can_ ,” he says, and Alastair realises, belatedly, that Jimmy’s speaking the lyrics along with the track, “ _’cause you’re partaking in something forbidden_.”

On _forbidden_ , he grabs Alastair’s arse. Alastair shakes his head, smiling, and Jimmy whisks his drink out of his hand and deposits both their glasses on the table; takes hold of Alastair’s forearms and pulls him into something that’d be hard to call dancing, as such, but certainly involves swaying in time to the music. At some point this dissolves back into kissing, and Alastair finds himself pushed back against the table, Jimmy’s mouth hard on his. The other man leans into him a bit too enthusiastically, until Alastair has to shove his hands behind him to stop himself overbalancing, almost knocking a glass flying in the process.

They stop for breath; drain and refill their glasses. Alastair decides the whisky burn isn’t as bad as he first thought. The opening bars of the next song tickle a memory; the first verse confirms it.

“I know this one,” he says, waving his glass in the direction of the TV. “Used to be on Swanny’s pre-match playlist, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Jimmy’s smile has a wistful edge. “Bluetonic. He loved the line coming up…” He waits, nodding slightly, then says, “This one: _And no challenge should be faced, without a little charm and a lot of style_.” He raises his glass with a flourish, and drinks.

Alastair nods. “That’s good.”

Jimmy swallows his mouthful of whisky, puts the glass down. “Next bit’s better. Wait for it.” He moves back in: lips brushing Alastair’s, hands at his waist; fingers insinuating themselves under the edge of the towel. This time he sings, quietly, a little off-key. “ _When I am sad and lonely, when all my hope is gone_ —”

Alastair’s not sure he likes where this is going. “Preferred the cheery one.”

“—shh! … _I walk around my house, and think of you with nothing on_.”

A sudden sharp tug on the towel; it gives, immediately, _floomps_ down to the floor.

Alastair laughs so hard he sways, leans into Jimmy’s chest a bit more heavily than he needs to. After a moment, a hand settles on the bare, slightly damp skin of his backside, and he hides a helpless smile in the crook of the other man’s neck. “Smooth,” he says, eventually, once he’s got himself under control. “How long did you spend planning _that_?”

“That specific move? About fifteen seconds.” Jimmy sounds immensely pleased with himself. “Getting you naked in _general_? Oh, months. Months and months.”

And Alastair would ask, but there are more urgent things on his mind. Holding his whisky glass tight against Jimmy’s back, he reaches up with his other hand and pulls him in, hungrily, for a kiss.

\--

Jimmy intended, he really did, to take it slowly. They’ve got the whole evening, after all, and part of the afternoon. No rush.

And yet. There was Ali on his hands and knees, there were the contours of the muscles in his arms and the enticing curve of that arse, and the look he gave Jimmy over his shoulder was positively _filthy_ (and he was even biting his lip, for fuck’s sake)… Really, what’s a man to do, under the circumstances?

Ali was _loud_ , too, Jimmy reflects, as he leans back against the pillows. Then again, so was he: telling himself the music would drown them out. Ali made him change the music, before they started. Film score tracks, on shuffle. Better camouflage, he said.

(Probably true. Bit surreal when the _Star Wars_ theme kicked in, though. Jimmy didn’t even know that one was on there. He suspects it was planted by Swanny, at some point.)

Now Ali’s sprawled flat on his belly, a few feet away: face down in rumpled sheets, crooked arms framing his head.

“Definitely going to go and clean up,” he mumbles, though Jimmy hasn’t said anything. “Any minute.”

“No rush,” says Jimmy, which is both true, and isn’t. He counts the moles he can see on the other man’s back, the marks where his fingers and his mouth have been (not nearly enough); joins the dots, in his mind, to draw patterns across his skin.

“Are you staring at me?”

“No,” he lies. (He’d dearly like to turn that round arse red, but has been holding himself back whenever the idea nudges his brain. He’s been telling himself Ali isn’t ready for it, yet, but in truth it’s probably him.)

Ali lifts his head a little way, looks at Jimmy through heavy-lidded eyes, then plants his face back down on the sheets. “Yes you are.” His voice is muffled. “Cut it out.”

 _So what if I am?_ Jimmy thinks. _Might be my last chance._

He wants more whisky. He wants to touch him, to trace with careful fingertips the patterns his imagination has been making; make them real, briefly, through sensation. He doesn’t how to begin, not in this context, on the far side of sex.

(His wife was here, in this hotel, only yesterday. This is important, a check on him; or it should be.)

On the pretext that they’ve both had too much booze to drive – mostly he just doesn’t want Ali to get dressed – Jimmy scrolls through JustEat on his phone, and they order pizza. They flick stations on the TV, end up giggling over a trashy horror film on some digital channel from the outer reaches of good taste. Jimmy goes down to the lobby to meet the pizza delivery guy, and on his return he greets the discovery that Ali’s put on some pants with an exaggerated sigh.

“Think you’re mixing up me and Joe,” he says. “You leave the pants off for him, but put them on for me. Wrong way round.”

“You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Nope,” says Jimmy. “Any case, no point. You’re only going to have to take them off again, soon.”

Ali sticks his tongue out, but Jimmy’s prediction is proven true before they’ve even made it through the pizza. Ali asks to sample Jimmy’s; Jimmy decides to feed it to him, makes him keep his hands flat on the bed, dangles the pizza slice above his nose so he has to stretch for it, mouth open. Then Jimmy holds out his fingers and Ali, with a knowing smile, leans forward and sucks them clean, one by one.

(After that sight, Jimmy would have to be a saint to keep his hands to himself; and that’s one thing he definitely isn’t.)

This second time, though, Jimmy persuades his unquiet mind and his impatient partner to take things more slowly. This time, they meander: kissing, stroking, squeezing, groping. Breathing each other in, finding the places that produce smiles and sighs and gasps. Gradually Jimmy sheds his clothes again (but leaves Ali his pants; he has plans), lets things get faster, heavier; gets Ali on his back and keeps him there, holds him down with a firm grip on his forearms.

At length, he tires of this; wants more freedom of movement. (And to restrict Ali’s, obviously.) He rolls over, reaches for the soft black pouch by the bed; looks wistfully at the things in there they haven’t used, might not get to use now. (One way or another, it hasn’t been the week for trying new things.) So he falls back on something at least a little familiar. He pulls out one of the lengths of rope, raises an eyebrow, gets a smile. He beckons Ali to sit up, draws the other man’s hands together in front of him, palm to palm, then winds the rope about his wrists with a luxurious lack of haste, feeling the heat in him build with every turn. He doesn’t make as many turns as the last time; leaves himself a generous trailing end when he ties the knot. He grasps this in his left hand, and takes a moment or two to savour the sight of Ali at bay: the rapid rise and fall of his muscular chest, the flush coating the sharp angles of his cheeks; bound hands resting on broad, splayed thighs, and tight black pants doing little to conceal the shape of his excitement.

Glorious and helpless. And eager to please.

(Jimmy has a bit of a buzz from the whisky, but this is something else entirely.)

Jimmy tugs on the end of the rope, coaxing Ali forward and then down, stretching him out until he’s stationed on his hand and knees. Holding the end of the rope firm against the mattress, Jimmy moves so he’s sitting alongside Ali, rather than in front of him. With his free hand, he reaches back and starts to slide Ali’s pants down over his backside. Ali shifts, clearly intending to help things along, but Jimmy holds a steadying hand on the back of his thigh until the other man gets the message that he needs to stay still. Then he goes back to work on the pants, pulling them down to expose arse and crotch, but only that far – leaving them partway down his open thighs, elastic waistband stretched tight.

Again Jimmy lets his gaze roam; partly, again, he’s enjoying the scene he’s created, but this time it’s a pause aimed at the other man, and he exaggerates his leer accordingly. He wants to give Ali time to dwell on his situation, to be fully aware of how exposed he is, how helpless. How much he’s under Jimmy’s control.

Ali’s eyes are wide; his parted lips have the hint of a smile on them. Jimmy watches the other man shift more of his weight onto his knees, so he can pull against Jimmy’s grip on the rope binding his wrists. Jimmy bears down on the rope end, unyielding, giving Ali space to struggle, to explore the constriction. (He’s learned this is a thing the other man likes; and, hey, he enjoys seeing it happen, so it’s win-win, really.)

Then he leans in, still keeping his left hand flat to the rope and the bed, and trails the fingertips of his free hand up Ali’s arm, along his side, over to his arse, where he draws languid spirals and listens to the other man’s breath catch every time he wanders lower. He bends his head down over Ali’s back, skimming his lips close over Ali’s skin without ever touching it; maintains that distance as he moves up to his shoulders, his neck, his ear, his mouth. Ali closes his eyes, swallows visibly, but stays still; doesn’t snatch for the kiss, but waits for it to be given. Jimmy dips his head, presses a light peck against Ali’s Adam’s apple, another just under his chin, returns once more to hover over his mouth. Still Ali is motionless, though his breathing’s ragged, now.

( _Good boy_ , Jimmy thinks. He can’t say this out loud – Ali’s asked him not to – but sometimes it’s the only thing that fits and he’ll indulge it, in his head.)

He rewards Ali with an open-mouthed kiss all the fiercer (from both of them) for the wait; hears the _want_ sound in Ali’s throat. As the kiss goes on, Jimmy brings his free hand up, slides it under and around Ali’s chest; finds a nipple, teases it into a peak, rolls it between his fingertips, strokes the tip. Ali groans into his mouth – and again, louder, when Jimmy pinches harder and pulls on the nipple, stretching it away from his chest. After a while, he moves to the other one, gives it the same treatment until Ali breaks the kiss and lets his head droop, panting.

Now Jimmy traces the other man’s spine with his fingers, all the way down into the cleft of his backside, brushing against his entrance. Ali’s cleaned up thoroughly; there’s no trace of the lube from earlier, so Jimmy wets a finger to circle the rim a few times before dipping inside. Just enough to tease, going nowhere near deep enough for his prostate.

The first crack appears in Ali’s patience. “Yeah,” he breathes. “ _Please_.”

But Jimmy has other ideas.

He lets go, pushes himself to the edge of the bed, and stands. Reaches once again for the black pouch, unzips it. Ali’s gaze flickers after him, but Jimmy’s pleased to see he stays exactly where he’s been put. Jimmy digs in the pouch, drags out a white cotton handkerchief. Kind of makeshift – he brought it from home – but it’ll do the job.

(Ali’s not the only one who’s done a little online research of late. After the picnic and the conversation about stuff they might try, Jimmy browsed a few websites. In the end he resisted the urge, despite the oh-so-enticing mental images of Ali modelling some of the things he lingered over. It felt a bit like tempting fate, to start buying things when he didn’t even know if he’d be in the team after this match.)

He folds the handkerchief, diagonally, corner-to-corner; rolls it up until he’s made a good thick strap of it, about two inches wide. Then he holds it up by Ali’s face, just above his nose, and says, “Yeah?”

Ali wets his lips. “Yes,” he says, and his voice trembles, a bit.

“Sure?”

A nod. Jimmy waits a moment longer, then moves in.

Ali’s eyes close as the blindfold reaches him; Jimmy settles it in place, making sure it’s comfortable (and that there are no gaps), then draws the ends around the other man’s head, securing it in Ali’s hair with a tight double knot.

He touches Ali’s cheek; Ali flinches, a little, at the contact, and Jimmy realises he should have kept his hand against Ali’s skin on the way back round his head from the knot, so the other man would know where it was. He’s going to exploit precisely this uncertainty, soon, but while he’s setting up he should probably be more careful. (Another lesson.)

“Okay?” he says, softly, stroking along the lower edge of the blindfold, checking it’s not too tight. Again, Ali nods.

Jimmy contemplates the positioning a moment, then says, “Just going to adjust you a bit. Down on your elbows, it’ll put less pressure on your hands.” He guides the other man until he’s resting his weight on his forearms. _Beautiful_ , he thinks. “Also, it pushes your arse up in the air more, which is never a bad thing.”

Ali flushes, presumably at this fresh reminder of how he’s on display; his smile’s abashed. Jimmy grins, even though he knows the other man can’t see it, just as he can’t see the extent of Jimmy’s arousal. He takes the pink plastic ball, the cat toy, out of the pouch, and slots it into the cup of Ali’s bound hands. “Just in case,” he says, and Ali shakes it, once, with a smile.

Finally Jimmy steps back, and waits; lets Ali wonder what’s going to happen next. On an impulse, he pads over to the mp3 player – sees Ali’s head turning, searching, trying to work out where he is – and starts the film score playlist again, volume low. Increasing the difficulty level a little; making it a little harder for Ali to hear him moving about.

When he returns to the bed, he stays off to the side, standing. Dots Ali’s back and arse and shoulders with kisses and pinches: sometimes swift and darting, to raise a gasp or a yelp; sometimes lingering, in search of moans. At first Ali jerks or twitches with each new contact, his head whipping round in a fruitless effort to work out what’s happening, or what’s next; gradually he steadies and stills, even if his breathing doesn’t.

Jimmy makes Ali wait again while he opens the lube as quietly as he can, and coats a couple of fingers on his left hand. He takes hold of the end of the rope once more with his right hand, then backs away until that arm is stretched to its full extent, and he’s got a reasonable view of Ali’s arse. Offering no warning, he slides a slick finger once around Ali’s entrance, then pushes it inside, up to the first knuckle.

Ali startles, hisses, jerking sharply forwards then back again, pulling against Jimmy’s grip on the rope. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Sorry.” Jimmy’s not sure if he’s apologising for moving or for swearing; possibly both. (Quite likely both, actually.)

“Good?”

“Intense.”

Jimmy pushes his finger in further, until it finds the bump; works at it for some time. Lets go of the rope, moves his free hand up from the mattress to rest between Ali’s shoulderblades, discouraging him from moving. This is only partially effective; Ali’s patience is clearly fraying, and he’s starting to writhe. Jimmy pulls his fingers out, wipes them clean as Ali breathes hard, head down. Jimmy knows, then, exactly what he needs (wants) to do; he takes a deep breath, draws back his hand, and administers a smart smack to Ali’s backside.

Ali gives a small, sharp cry, and almost buckles; Jimmy grabs him, quickly, before he can topple over. He feels light-headed. Through the arm he has wrapped around Ali’s chest, Jimmy can feel the other man’s heart racing.

“Ha,” Ali says; “huh.” Like he’s testing his voice, or only has gasps left to offer. Eventually, he manages, “God. Any more where that came from?”

Jimmy’s cock is throbbing. Still he hesitates. “If I’m back,” he says, “for the fourth Test.” He unfolds himself, relinquishing his grip on Ali, but not without planting a kiss in the centre of his back. “One evening, we’ll do that properly.”

(Easier to promise, he reflects, when you don’t think you _will_ be back.)

“Then can we…” Ali turns his blindfolded head; doesn’t quite get the right angle on Jimmy. (It’s odd, Jimmy thinks, how the impulse is to look, even when you can’t see.) “I mean, are you ready? Because I’m, well… I’m definitely ready. I know, I know; impatient. But honestly… I don’t think I can take much more.”

Jimmy reaches for his face, strokes his mouth. “One more thing,” he says. “Okay?”

Ali kisses Jimmy’s fingers. “Yes,” he says.

And now, finally, Jimmy gets back on the bed. He kneels up in front of Ali, grips the back of his head with one hand and takes up the end of the rope again with the other. Ali’s lips open for him, and, smiling to himself, Jimmy sinks his aching cock deep into the heat of Ali’s willing mouth. He keeps control for a while, holding Ali’s head firmly, thrusting against the back of his throat, grunting his approval of how well the other man takes it. Then he eases off, lets Ali get busy, supports himself with one hand on Ali’s shoulder, using the other to stroke the back of his neck, his throat, the lips stretched around his shaft. Wonders what it’s like to have your mouth full of cock when you can’t see a thing, or move your hands to help you; not bad, apparently, if Ali’s moans and the single, approving shake of the bell in his hands are anything to go by.

“Sometimes,” Jimmy says, when he’s ready to move things on (and he’s surprised by the sound of his voice; he thought he was keeping these words in his head), “I’m amazed you let me do this stuff.”

Ali makes a noise; at first Jimmy thinks he’s choking, but he realises, as he pulls back and out, that it’s a chuckle. Ali ducks his head to wipe his mouth against his bound hands, then pushes himself up, sits back on his heels – wobbling slightly, enough to make Jimmy tense in case he needs to catch him again – and reaches for the blindfold. Hesitates. “Can I?”

Jimmy’s arousal coils in him at this request for permission, and he thinks, again, _Good boy_. He nods, then remembers the part where Ali can’t see, and says, “Yep. This bit’s done.”

Ali pushes at the blindfold with the heels of his hands, doesn’t get very far; at last Jimmy takes pity on him and reaches around to untie it (not without some regret, at seeing it return to its former self as simply a handkerchief).

Ali blinks, squints in a way that looks painful, and again Jimmy curses himself for not thinking properly; he should have turned the lights down, so they wouldn’t be as much of a shock to Ali's system. He tries to make amends by helping Ali get his pants off at last. The tight elastic has worn red grooves into the outsides of Ali’s thighs. _Oops._

“I _don’t_ ,” Ali says, at last.

Jimmy’s lost. “What?”

“I don’t just _let_ you. It’s not something I’m… I don’t know, putting up with for the pleasure of your company. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I _like_ your company, but I didn’t throw myself at you at Headingley so we could go for dinner a bit more.” Ali fixes a dark-eyed gaze on him. “Surely you’ve noticed by now that _I_ like this, too?”

“Damn,” says Jimmy, shuffling over the bedside drawer for a fresh condom, because for all the levity in Ali’s tone, there’s something earnest in his face that Jimmy’s not sure he wants to deal with just now. “You mean I’m _not_ corrupting you?”

“Didn’t say _that_.”

Jimmy spots something extra in the drawer, something he missed before: a small-ish cube, maybe half the size of his palm, wrapped in unpatterned silver-coloured paper. “Huh. What’s this?”

Ali’s face changes when he sees what Jimmy’s holding. “Nosy sod. Put it back.”

“What is it?”

“Not now. Later, maybe.”

Jimmy puts the mystery package down, advances on Ali. “Is it a _birthday_ present, by any chance?”

Ali backs away, pouting. “What are you, five? You’ve got a naked guy sitting in front of you, tied up and practically _begging_ to be fucked, and you see a thing in some wrapping paper and you’re all—”

Jimmy grabs him by the waist to cut him off, pulls him sharply down beneath him. “Tell me,” he says, grinning, moving in for a kiss.

Ali twists his head away, clearly fighting a smile, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence. “Nope.”

“ _Tell_ me.”

“No.”

With scant mercy, Jimmy tickles Ali, easily dodging the efforts of Ali’s tied hands to stop him, or to start something else. But the other man stands (lies) firm, and eventually Jimmy’s attention drifts back to the main order of business. He gives in with a rueful smile; settles himself with his back to the headboard, gets himself ready. Then he guides Ali down into his lap, so he’s kneeling astride Jimmy’s thighs as he’s done before, but with his back against Jimmy’s chest, this time. Jimmy lines himself up, breaches Ali with the head of his cock – and Ali slides down the rest of the way himself, slowly, releasing a long breath as he does.

Jimmy closes his eyes, presses his forehead into the other man’s neck. How easy and natural this has become; Ali’s body knows him, now.

Ali starts to move, but Jimmy checks him. “Hold still,” he says, wrapping an arm around Ali’s chest. “Just for a minute. I just want to…”

 _Want to what?_ he wonders. He knows the answer, won’t say: _Feel you_.

( _remember this_ )

Too sentimental. Too sentimental by half. As if he’s read Jimmy’s mind, Ali comes to the rescue: the muscles cradling the base of Jimmy’s cock suddenly contract, powerfully. Jimmy hears himself make a sort of a strangled gasp; when he recovers, he sees Ali’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Brat,” he mutters.

Ali pats Jimmy’s knee (awkwardly, since his hands are tied palm-to-palm). “You like it, really.”

“I _like_ you doing what you’re told.”

Ali looks round, and his grin is pure distilled mischief. “There’s a time to be good, and a time to be bad.”

And (for one night _only_ ) he’s right, he’s completely right, but _obviously_ Jimmy’s not going to admit this, or discipline really will collapse. He reaches round to slap Ali’s thighs with both hands – not hard, but enough to sting, and make the other man yelp. “Shut up,” he says, trying to sound stern, “and get to work.”

And Ali does, in fact, do the majority of the work from there on; with his legs bent beneath him, he’s got the leverage, after all, that Jimmy’s doesn’t. Jimmy keeps his hands on the other man’s hips so he can adjust him from time to time, but mostly he just revels in sight and sensation: the muscles in Ali’s back and his backside flexing under his skin as he rolls his hips, thighs lifting him up and pushing him back, over and over again; the squeeze and slide of him up and down Jimmy’s cock, and the sight of that cock disappearing inside him. Jimmy breathes his need into Ali’s skin, drags his fingers over the other man’s chest, kisses the nape of his neck until Ali turns his head, and their mouths meet for something that’s half a kiss, half breathless laughter against each other’s lips.

And just for a little while, Jimmy lets himself stop thinking about tomorrow.

\--

In the end, Jimmy stays the night.

When the second round’s done, they clean up, wolf down the last few cold slices of pizza, then give in to their (mostly Jimmy’s) cravings, and order room service chips. They retire to the sofa, sit side-by-side with just their knees touching, drink more whisky (again mostly Jimmy), talk about anything except Jimmy’s trial, and end up in a slightly surreal three-way text message conversation with Swanny, which probably costs them all a fortune but makes Alastair laugh so hard he can’t speak.

After Swanny signs off to go and do whatever it is he’s being paid to be in the Caribbean for – even he seems somewhat uncertain – Jimmy goes quiet. Alastair, still replaying in his head what just happened - specifically, the bit with the blindfold and his wrists tied, _fuck_ , he thinks, and that's really all the words he has, just now - is contemplating calling a halt to the whisky side of things when he finds himself drawn, abruptly and wordlessly, into a long kiss. Their movements are sluggish, by now, steeped in exhaustion and alcohol, and they don’t bother with sex, just get each other off in a silence relieved only by their moans.

But when Alastair steps out of the bathroom and sees Jimmy in the bed rather than heading out of the door, he almost trips over his own feet in surprise. The other man’s lying on his side, facing away, arms wrapped around a pillow like he’s hugging it. Alastair hovers in the middle of the room, tangled up in the irresistible sight of the other man – the duvet’s twisted, leaving most of his back uncovered, from toned, angular shoulders to the smooth inward curve of his lower back – and the misgivings that have swirled in him since the start of the Test.

He pulls on his pyjamas slowly, stomach churning, thinking about the little box in the drawer by the bed, about how unprepared he is for all of this. He needs to be so careful, here. Can’t let Jimmy see this in him, because he’ll run a mile; can’t let himself get too caught up, either, because he has a job to do. If things go badly tomorrow – and he refuses to share Jimmy’s pessimism on the matter, but _still_ – he needs to be able to put all this behind him, and move on. Help his team win this series.

He slides under the covers, lies dithering for a long interval, then rolls over and reaches out, hesitantly, for Jimmy’s bare back. The other man flinches, pushes at Alastair’s hand, but without any real force. The same impulse that sent Alastair out of the dressing room to find Jimmy this afternoon makes him push aside the misgivings, and move in closer: a conviction that Jimmy needs support. But Alastair doesn’t touch, this time; he can see the tension in Jimmy’s shoulders that he missed before, knows that he can’t force this. Instead, he clears his throat. “Said I’d keep you warm, didn’t I?”

Jimmy lets out a breath, a quiet sigh. After a long moment, he shifts; leans back into Alastair, who swallows, and tucks an arm around him. Jimmy’s skin does, as it happens, feel cool to the touch, but his hand’s warm when he settles it over Alastair’s. Alastair closes his eyes as their fingers intertwine, feeling again that fluttering in his chest.

He’s not _all in_ , as Swanny put it; but he is in too deep. He knows this now. In the moment, though, and aware that this might be the other man’s last night with the team this summer, he chooses to take the risk. He’ll deal with the consequences after tomorrow, if he has to.

\--

Jimmy wakes early, with a slight headache and the aftertaste of whisky on his tongue. At first he’s bemused by the warmth surrounding him, the weight around his waist, but he swiftly remembers, and rues the last few drinks for leaving him helpless to resist spooning.

(It feels all right, though. On balance. Just this once. He supposes.)

He steels himself, eases his way out of Ali’s arms, almost manages to get dressed and gather his things without waking him.

Not quite, though. He hears movement as he’s collecting his mp3 player and putting on his trainers: the soft susurrus of bedcovers being disturbed, and the smooth wood-on-wood glide of that drawer beside the bed. It’s a sound he’s got used to, this past week. He turns, to see Ali sitting up, on the edge of the bed.

In Ali’s hand is the cube in the silver wrapping paper; he holds it out with a smile, says quietly, “Happy birthday. Belatedly.”

Jimmy grins as he takes the gift, despite himself. He pulls off the wrapping paper to discover a small grey-blue box with a hinged lid, which he flips up. Inside, nestled on a pale blue satin cushion, is a pair of cufflinks. Silver, matte finish, square, artfully rough-cut edges; maybe half an inch across, or a little more. Engraved on the faces, in a slender serif script, are Roman numerals: _IX_.

Quite elegant; beautiful, actually. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised, but he is.

“Thank you,” he says, and his voice sounds gruff. He clears his throat. “Thanks.” He plucks one out; it’s heavier than he expected. The tiny stamp on the back confirms that it’s silver.

“Your ODI number, obviously,” says Ali. “Also, well… private joke. Nine, for nine o’clock. I thought that after… when the summer’s over, and we’ve gone our separate ways, it’ll be… a reminder. Of the fun we had.”

By the end, his voice is faltering.

Jimmy swallows, with difficulty. His throat suddenly feels very tight. He rubs his thumb over the surface of the cufflink he’s holding, feeling the edges of the numerals against his skin, reading them by touch. He can’t decide whether he doesn’t want to look over at the other man, or is afraid to.

The silence stretches. Ali breaks it with a flurry of movement: he’s turning away on the bed, raising his arms; from the corner of his eye, Jimmy sees him shove both hands into his hair, hold them there against his head.

“It’s too much, isn’t it? It is. I knew I was overdoing it. Bollocks. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— It’s fine if you don’t want them, I won’t be offended or anything, it’s— Sorry.” The breath Ali draws in sounds a touch shaky. He stands up. “Okay, I’m going to, uh...”

 _I do_ , Jimmy thinks. _I do want them._

(He does. Fuck, he really does. But Ali’s given him an out, and he should take it: hand them back. When can he wear them? Not around his wife. Either way, any time he does wear them, it’ll be a betrayal. An admission, if only to himself, that this thing meant something to him. Means something to him.)

_The fun we had._

It’s more than that, isn’t it? Which is why—

He puts the cufflink back with its partner, closes the box with a quiet snap. Reaches out for the other man, a hand to the back of his neck, pulls him into a fierce embrace.

Still holding him, not looking down, Jimmy finds Ali’s hand, presses the blue box into his palm. After a moment, he feels Ali’s fingers close around it.

“Take care, Cooky,” he says; then pulls away, and leaves without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The decision to go with the Bluetones as Jimmy's music of choice was influenced by three things: a) [this interview with Swanny](http://www.qthemusic.com/886/playlist-give-spin-graeme-swanns-dressing-room-selections/) (which piranhafish linked in her amaaaazing Swanny fic ['Unfinished Business'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3541217)); b) the edition of the Not Just Cricket radio show about two weeks ago, in which Swanny noted that Jimmy's been complaining about the music the younger players choose for the dressing room now Swanny isn't there (specific mention being made of the Bluetones); and c) [these tweets](https://twitter.com/jimmy9/status/624892687674679296). Case closed.
> 
> The Bluetones aren't one of my bands, but my OH likes them a lot, so I know their stuff pretty well. The songs I've used here are 'After Hours' ([full lyrics](http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/b/bluetones/after_hours.html); [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g6rRJVaFc1I)) and 'Bluetonic' ([full lyrics](http://genius.com/The-bluetones-bluetonic-lyrics); [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7JVFHCcHv5Y)), with the latter being a particular favourite of Swanny's according to the interview linked above. And, god, how could you resist either of those lines?
> 
> Other notes:
> 
> 1) Should have said this ages ago, but: please do feel free to point out in comments (or via DM on tumblr) if you spot a typo. I know the ethos of AO3 is positive feedback, and that's lovely, but - in all honesty - I'd appreciate knowing about anything you catch that I haven't. If my grammar's off, especially in dialogue, that's probably a deliberate (ahem, 'stylistic') choice, but I have a terrible habit of missing words out of sentences, and of misplaced html tags turning things into _thoughts_ that aren't, and I really would prefer to correct these. Drawing my attention to factual errors re. cricket and timelines is also great, although if they're fundamental to the plot I may just choose to leave them as they are. (As, for example, with ['One Night in Melbourne'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2357837) \- I discovered recently, while looking for something else entirely on Getty, that the pictures I'm referring to in that fic were taken in Sydney after the final Test, not at the MCG. But changing it would mean picking up a lot of references to it through the series, and while I do regularly go back and correct stuff in old fics, that's a level of intervention too far. So, er, let's chalk that one up to experience...)
> 
> 2) Thank you so much for all the feedback, kudos, subscriptions etc on this fic. It really feels like Part 3 has gone up a gear in terms of readership, and that's terrifying/awesome. I can't tell you how encouraging it is to get comments - it really does keep me going - even if it sometimes takes me a few days to reply!
> 
> 3) I'm now going to be taking a break from Jimmy/Alastair for a little while. There'll be a fic about the 4th Test in due course (hopefully mid-September, and hopefully shorter than this one, because srsly), but in the mean time I'm intending to turn my hand to writing more of my other two on-going (and sadly neglected) fics; also, I have a Brinn idea that's been nagging at me since Finny's triumphant return at Edgbaston the other week. Fingers crossed I can achieve at last some of these goals before Jimmy and Alastair take up residence in my head again!


End file.
